UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE
 
 PITY ME, LUKE! I AM SO UNHAPPY ! '"
 
 autbor's Definitive EDition 
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 S. WEIR MITCHELL, M.D. 
 
 LL.D. HARVARD AND EDINBURGH 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 1905
 
 Copyright, 1901, by 
 THE CENTURY Co. 
 
 THE DEVINNE PRESS. 

 
 C49 
 
 1905 
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE
 
 On a hilltop of an island endeared to 
 me by many memories, the ocean wind 
 has permanently bent pine, fir and spruce. 
 
 Here and there a single tree remains 
 upright, stanchly refusing to record 
 the effect of circumstance on character.
 
 OIECUMSTANCE 
 
 was nearly full moon on Long Island 
 (Sound a night so faultless that almost 
 all of the few passengers on the steamer 
 were out upon deck. High in air above 
 them the dark walking beams swung 
 up and down, and, quivering with their power, the 
 huge bulk of the steamer hurled on through the 
 snow-white lift of water cast from her cleaving bow. 
 A young girl and a man leaned over the rail, gaily 
 chatting, unsubdued by the radiant beauty of a 
 windless, moonlit night which, by degrees, had 
 brought to unexplained silence most of the groups 
 scattered here and there along the decks. 
 
 From the level of the upper deck a woman of 
 some thirty-six years watched the couple on the bow. 
 Once or twice she looked at her watch, and at last, 
 seeing them move, went down to the lower deck, 
 where she met them walking aft. 
 
 "My dear Miss Morrow," she said, "I have been 
 looking for you everywhere. I was told you were 
 on board. Imagine my surprise ! I am sure Mr. 
 Masters must want a cigar, and will let me have you 
 for a walk on deck."
 
 4 CDJCUMSTANCE 
 
 Mr. Masters was entirely willing, and, with a civil 
 word of conventional protest, left them, saying he 
 would look after them at the pier in New York 
 next morning. 
 
 Miss Morrow's greeting of the older woman had 
 been warm and honest. As he turned away Mrs. 
 Hunter said : 
 
 "Were I in Mr. Masters 's place I should hate Mrs. 
 Hunter; but the fact is I do want to have you to 
 myself." 
 
 Miss Morrow remarked that it was "awfully 
 nice." 
 
 "I was greatly surprised," said her friend, "to 
 find that you had left Newport, and to know that 
 I was on the boat with you did seem better fortune 
 than life usually provides for me." 
 
 4 ' I called to tell you I was going, ' ' said Miss Mor- 
 row; "you were out" 
 
 "Come to the stern." They gave up the sug- 
 gested walk, and sat down by themselves where they 
 could see the white wake of the steamer melt into 
 the distant darkness. The mysterious beauty of sea 
 and sky affected neither of them. 
 
 "I cannot help repeating," Mrs. Hunter began, 
 "what luck it is to find you on board." (She had 
 taken care to arrange that this fortunate meeting 
 should occur.) 
 
 Miss Morrow again explained: she had meant to 
 write, but, really, there was too much to do; her 
 maid was to remind her and never did 
 
 "And," said the elder woman, "we might never 
 have met again."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 5 
 
 "Oh, but we should! I should have written to 
 New York you know I have your address." 
 
 "Ah, dear child! You would have quite forgot- 
 ten me in the joys of a happier life." 
 
 "Oh, no, no!" 
 
 "Pardon me. No, you would not. How a night 
 like this sets one to thinking. This sad world is full 
 of broken friendships. One meets a woman like 
 you, a person of force and character, and then the 
 accidents of life part them and they meet no 
 more " she paused "no more on earth." 
 
 Miss Kitty sat up, conscious of a form of appre- 
 ciative consideration to which she was not elsewhere 
 accustomed. Her appetite for flattery was bound- 
 less. She had the avarice of praise, and was willing 
 to pay for it in her own feebler coinage. 
 
 "Oh, to have you say so," she said; "a woman 
 like you, Mrs. Hunter " 
 
 "I felt, my dear, when we first met that well, 
 there is such a thing as friendship at first sight, just 
 as, alas ! there is such a thing as love without second 
 sight." 
 
 "Oh, what a clever idea, Mrs. Hunter." 
 
 "Why must you call me Mrs. Hunter? In the 
 colder world of misapprehending people it may be 
 as well, but when we are alone, dear, alone, let it 
 be Lucretia. It seems to bring two kindred hearts 
 more near together." Much amused, she smiled 
 under the veil of shadows. 
 
 Miss Morrow murmured : 
 
 "Lucretia! I will try; but you do seem so far 
 above me, so much older "
 
 6 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Whether she was quite able to believe anyone her 
 mental superior may be doubted, but she made be- 
 lieve to herself to believe it, being, like many people 
 of thin intellect, an actress in a small way and 
 with one's self for sole audience this answers well 
 enough. 
 
 "And now, my dear," said Mrs. Hunter, "tell me 
 more of your own life. What can be as interesting 
 as a life? It remains always, to some extent, un- 
 known. Its residue of mystery is its charm. The 
 novelists are the fools of their fancies. Tell me 
 
 ) about yourself. Rational talk is quite impossible 
 in these social camps we absurdly call 'watering- 
 places.' " ^/ 
 
 "Just as if we were horses," said Miss Morrow. 
 
 "How witty!" exclaimed Mrs. Hunter. "How 
 delightful! I must remember that. If ever you 
 hear me use it, don't betray me." 
 
 "Oh, no!" said Miss Morrow, well pleased and 
 serious. 
 
 "But I do want to hear all about you, and of that 
 cousin of whom everyone speaks with admiration. 
 I suspect Mr. Masters is a little afraid of her and 
 I do want to hear of your uncle, too. Mr. Went- 
 worth describes him as a most interesting talker." 
 
 Kitty was too well trained to pour herself out, as 
 yet, with entire frankness, but she soon allowed the 
 shrewd woman at her side to understand that she 
 felt herself the victim of an exacting old man, and 
 that she was scarcely appreciated, as she thought 
 ' she had a right to be, by this cousin, Miss Fair- 
 thorne. Mrs. Hunter's hand sought that of the girl,
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 7 
 
 and for a moment expressed thus, and by silence, 
 the sympathy she meant to offer. 
 
 "My friend," she said at last, "I, too, have the 
 deeper experience of sorrow which no years can 
 bury. If the thought and tenderness of an older 
 woman can ever help and guide you, they are yours. 
 It is not rare that a stranger should best understand 
 a soul as peculiar as yours." 
 
 "Thank you," said Miss Kitty, feeling more in- 
 tensely than ever how completely she had been un- 
 derestimated at home. Here, at last, was one who 
 comprehended her. She had been made to feel this 
 before when she had met Mrs. Hunter at Newport. 
 That lady had said to her : 
 
 "You should not permit yourself to be called 
 Kitty, and I hope that you spell Katherine with 
 a'K.'" 
 
 Katherine was delighted. 
 
 "I shall always hate to hear you called Kitty. 
 Katherine Katherine with a K seems to suit you 
 to be really fitting. ' ' 
 
 Here again was insight truly remarkable. People 
 do not very eagerly investigate the source of flattery, 
 and even if Miss Kitty had known how easily Mrs. 
 Hunter had gathered her material it is still likely 
 that the willing receiver would have been more 
 pleased than critically curious. Any one of the 
 young women who were, for the time, of Miss Mor- 
 row's circle, could smilingly have given all the fore- 
 knowledge which Mrs. Hunter required, and now 
 made use of so cleverly. 
 
 "My cousin Margaret," said Miss Morrow, "says
 
 8 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 'people are so often injudiciously labelled.' How 
 just you are, Mrs. Hunter." 
 
 "Lucretia, dear," corrected the elder woman; 
 "Lucretia, love." 
 
 Mrs. Hunter had come from Wiesbaden with the 
 Wenhams, had made herself useful to an invalid' 
 daughter, and so agreeable to everybody that an in- 
 vitation to spend a month with them at Newport had 
 ended in its extension for another like term. Then 
 her hosts went away to their city home and Mrs. 
 Hunter felt that a promising campaign had ended 
 without practical results. The Wenhams had parted 
 with her civilly but without sign of deep regret, 
 except in the case of their daughter, who, in her 
 hysterical craving, foresaw the loss of demonstra- 
 tive sympathy. Mrs. Hunter, considering in turn 
 the sons, the father, and finally the mother, said to 
 herself at last : 
 
 "I ought to have cultivated that doctor." She 
 had enjoyed the game and now, regretting a partial 
 defeat, was ready to play again. 
 
 After a while she began : ' ' How one is tempted by 
 a friendly heart and the silent confessional of night ! 
 If ever I tell my life story, dear, to you, it will be 
 thus alone, in the night, when you cannot see 
 my face. You, also, I know have suffered. It is 
 eloquently written on a too expressive brow; a 
 tender riddle, my dear, which few know how to 
 read." 
 
 If Kitty had been able to purr, it is probable 'that 
 she would have vibrated with that instinctive signal 
 of feline satisfaction. She was young, pretty, vain,
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 9 
 
 greedy of all forms of homage. She had been, for 
 her, unusually quiet. Now she spoke: 
 
 "How good you are, and you have, as Mr. Knell- 
 wood once said of my cousin Mary, 'that reserve of 
 the high-minded which adds a mysterious interest to 
 life.' " 
 
 Mrs. Hunter smiled anew under the partial mask 
 of moonlight shadows. 
 
 "Fine, very fine, that and, I hope, true!" she 
 exclaimed. "But who is Mr. Knellwood?" 
 
 "My rector," replied Kitty; "my confessor," she 
 added, under her breath. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter made mental note of it. 
 
 "Well, I shall soon be in your city; I shall hope 
 to know him. I have a letter from my own dear old 
 rector at Umstead. I had a Sunday-school class 
 there. Ah, the quiet of that life of peace ! Ah, the 
 dear little old village ! Well, well ! Shall we walk, 
 Katherine, or shall it be bed ? ' ' 
 
 Miss Kitty, yawning under her hand, thought the 
 latter preferable. Mrs. Hunter had given her so 
 much to think about. 
 
 When, in the early morning, Mrs. Hunter parted 
 from Miss Morrow on the pier in New York, it was 
 with a solemn promise not to fail to let Miss Kather- 
 ine know when she, Mrs. Hunter, would have a 
 chance to see her in her own city and home. 
 
 "You will be most welcome, most welcome! And 
 be sure to write to me. I know how busy you are, 
 but do find a little time for poor me." 
 
 It seemed that there was an article Mrs. Hunter 
 had not decided what title to give it it was for the
 
 10 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Atlantic" magazine. It would keep her occupied 
 in New York for a while. At last they kissed and 
 parted. Miss Kitty said amiable good-byes to a 
 group of summer friends, men and women, and then 
 turned to Mr. Masters, who was watching with inter- 
 est Miss Kitty's performance. She was the only 
 woman he had ever loved, whom he did not after- 
 ward regard with the kindliest of liking. He would 
 gladly have avoided her on the steamer, but her 
 people were old friends, and she herself was not easy 
 to avoid. 
 
 He waited patiently and at last saw the young 
 woman and her maid into their carriage. As he set 
 foot on the step of his own cab he looked back at 
 Mrs. Hunter, as she stood bargaining with a hack- 
 man. 
 
 "Well," said an elderly man, who was to share 
 his carriage, and was already seated, "do you know 
 that lady? What a figure! I noticed her on the 
 boat. She walks well!" 
 
 "I cannot say I know her," said Mr. Masters. 
 "I have talked to her pretty often. I rather think 
 I ought to say she has talked to me. ' ' 
 
 "That is all we know of most people," said his 
 friend; "get in, I want my breakfast." 
 
 As they drove up-town, he asked where Mrs. Hun- 
 ter came from. Mr. Masters said, with a lift of his 
 brow, that he had never asked her, but that some- 
 one had said she gave the impression of an actress 
 of distinction who had retired from the stage. His 
 companion, a shrewd old leader of the bar, re- 
 turned :
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 11 
 
 " Actress? Yes-but retired? No! She is still 
 in business. ' ' 
 
 Mr. Masters, summing up, remarked that she was 
 handsome, had a neat figure, dressed well and not 
 too much, as to all of which Mr. Masters was as good 
 an authority as on pigeon-shooting or salmon-fishing.
 
 II 
 
 was afternoon of a mild October day. 
 The open windows of a large room on the 
 second floor of a house on Fourth 
 Street, near to Spruce, in the city of 
 Penn, looked out on a broad garden, 
 which extended about one hundred and fifty feet 
 westward and was now carpeted with the fallen red 
 and gold of a wide-spreading maple. Here and 
 there were a few late roses, amid a more seasonable 
 growth of asters, scarlet sage, and marigolds. The 
 room was empty. A wood fire blazed on the hearth. 
 Presently a large, yellow Angora cat leaped into the 
 window from the roof of the veranda. The minia- 
 ture tiger trod with care over the account books 
 and inkstand of a well-ordered table. Lightly mov- 
 ing, the cat reached a cushioned easy-chair, and, coil- 
 ing herself into a mound of dark orange-tinted fur, 
 went peacefully to sleep, undisturbed by the en- 
 trance of a girl of some twenty-three years of age. 
 Miss Fairthorne looked about her with an air of 
 relief, pleased to find a place where she could be 
 alone. She gently lifted the cat and took her place 
 near the window, in the sunshine of the fading day. 
 "If," she murmured "if ever I have a home of 
 my own I shall have a hermit-room on the roof." 
 12
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 13 
 
 Thus musing, she sat down, took a pen from the 
 / table, and, unlocking the clasp of a rather large 
 diary, was soon busily engaged in the transfer of her 
 thoughts to its pages. 
 
 A few minutes later her lips parted with a slight 
 expression of annoyance. A much younger and 
 very pretty girl announced her presence by a merry 
 laugh as she stood in the doorway. 
 
 "Ah!" she cried, "I have been looking for you 
 everywhere. You told me you had to talk to the 
 cook." The tone was reproachful. 
 
 "It was true, Kitty; but, also, I have now and 
 then to talk to myself, and really, dear, in this house, 
 what with my uncle's wants and the endless proces- 
 sion of people who waste my time and their own, I 
 find it hard to get leisure to read a page, or to think 
 in peace." 
 
 "But," said the girl, with excess of emphasis, 
 "my dear Mary, what is there to think about f I 
 have so much to tell you. There was Long Branch, 
 and then Newport 
 
 "But, Kitty, you really wrote a good deal, and I 
 lay awake last night until one o'clock, while you sat 
 on the bedside and told me no end of things about 
 people in whom I have less interest than in Felisa, 
 the cat." 
 
 "But I did not nearly finish," said Miss Morrow; 
 "I met Mr. Masters on the boat" 
 
 "That must have been interesting I should say, 
 exciting. Well, go on, Kitty." 
 
 / Miss Fairthorne gave up in despair and shut her 
 v diary with a sharp movement.
 
 14 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "I do not see, Mary, why you are so cross," said 
 Kitty. 
 
 "Am I cross, dear?" 
 
 "Yes, you are; you shut up that tiresome diary 
 the way Uncle John slams a door." 
 
 "I do not mean to be cross." As she spoke she 
 rose, a strongly-built young woman, whose rather 
 large features and unusual height would acquire 
 new esthetic values as she came to middle age. She 
 kissed her cousin and petted her with tender touches, 
 saying pleasant things of her gown and her looks, 
 knowing well her appetite for such food. The 
 younger woman, satisfied with tributes to which she 
 was well accustomed, regained her lost temper and 
 began again to pour out her flood of quite harmless 
 gossip. 
 
 As they stood, Mary Fairthorne looked down on 
 the rosy, vivacious little cousin with now a kindly 
 caressing touch, and now an uninterested but posi- 
 tive "Ah!" or "Really!" "Is that so, dear?" and 
 the like. 
 
 This girl of twenty-three years was engaged in the 
 construction of character out of strong but not very 
 plastic material. The cousin known to her inti- 
 mates as Kitty was as nearly an instinctive creature 
 as evolutionary forces and educational training per- 
 mit a young woman of her class to be. Life seemed 
 as easy to her ready acceptances as it was difficult 
 to the larger nature, which possessed far wider 
 horizons both past and future. More womanly than 
 her cousin Kitty, she was less obviously feminine, 
 and was a person about whom people were apt to
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 15 
 
 express decisive opinions of rather varied character. 
 Her patience seemed to be near to its reward when 
 Kitty said : 
 
 ''Now I must go and see Margaret Swanwick." 
 
 She turned at the doorway : 
 
 "What were you writing in your diary?" 
 
 Miss Fairthorne smiled. 
 
 "Do you really want very much to know, Kitty?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes!" 
 
 "And you will never tell?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 Mary opened her diary and read : 
 
 "Mahomet says, 'When one of you getteth angry, 
 he must sit down, and if his anger still endure, let 
 him lie down.' ' 
 
 "I don't think," said Kitty, "that there was any 
 need to promise secrecy if that 's all." 
 
 She was as nearly without sense of humor as the 
 slumbering Angora on the hearth-rug. 
 
 " Try it when Uncle John is at his worst, ' ' laughed 
 Mary. 
 
 "But I never get angry without cause, and then, 
 as Mr. Knell wood says, 'There is a righteous anger 
 and an unrighteous anger.' ' 
 
 This sort of vagueness, the quoting of other folk's 
 wisdom and the lack of sense of the comic, were apt 
 to exasperate the tall cousin. Now she merely said : 
 
 "Well, by-by, dear. Try Mahomet's receipt." 
 
 As she spoke she playfully pushed Kitty through 
 the doorway. Then she stood for a moment, and 
 reopened her diary. 
 
 "I forgot," said Kitty, turning back, "I forgot
 
 16 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 to ask you to remind me to tell you about Mrs. 
 Hunter." 
 
 Mary Fairthorne sat down. She had stood Kitty's 
 amiable and too merry volubility for a large part of 
 the day and had given up to the girl more hours 
 than she cared to waste. She was, to tell the truth, 
 again on the verge of vexed and futile remonstrance 
 when, instinctively obedient to Mahomet, she sat 
 down. 
 
 As she dropped into the chair Kitty's rosy face 
 grew serious she had a faint gleam of enlighten- 
 ment as she said : 
 
 "Are you resorting to Mahomet's remedy?" 
 
 Mary laughed. 
 
 "I? No!" It was hardly true. "What else is 
 there, dear?" 
 
 "I forgot to tell you, you would like her. Oh, 
 you will be sure to like her. Mr. Masters knows 
 her; he says she has charm" 
 
 "He says that about everything that wears a pet- 
 ticoat," said Mary, resolute to control any sign of 
 impatience. "But whom are you talking about, 
 Kitty?" 
 
 "I told you, Mary Mrs. Hunter. She is so gen- 
 tle, so wise, so learned, and she carries her know- 
 ledge so lightly Here Mary recognized a phrase 
 which Mr. Knellwood had with justice applied to 
 Margaret Swanwick. 
 
 "But I must go, and I know you are tired of me. 
 I really had to tell you." 
 
 ' ' I tired of you, my dear Kit ? You must not say 
 such things"
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 17 
 
 "But you are tired of me," repeated the girl, with 
 dull persistency; "and yet, Mrs. Hunter is so like 
 you in some ways, I mean that " 
 
 "Then I shall surely hate her," exclaimed Mary, 
 laughing. 
 
 "Oh, no! You must like her for my sake; and 
 now, we will leave the rest until to-morrow. Don't 
 look so resigned." 
 
 "My dear child," said Miss Fairthorne, "I have 
 some right to be tired to-day, but I am not tired 
 of you, only of these numberless people who interest 
 / you and do not in the least interest me. ' ' 
 
 "There is nothing human that should fail to in- 
 terest us, Mary; we are all the children of one 
 Father." 
 
 "Vide somebody," thought Mary. A touch of 
 the comic always cured her mild attacks of impa- 
 tience and the young cause was pretty sure, soon 
 or late, to supply the remedy. She was a trifle dis- 
 appointed that Kitty had not answered her crossly. 
 It would have seemed to excuse her own brief failure 
 of temper. 
 
 Kitty's weaknesses appealed to the stronger girl, 
 who had an unusual charity for moral defects and 
 who found in her cousin what everyone found the 
 attractiveness which childlike and too natural women 
 possess. Despite nearness of years, Mary Fair- 
 thorne was more mother than cousin to this self- 
 ^ spoiled, unstable beauty, who was now pouting a 
 little, and feeling, as she was apt to say, that she 
 was not sufficiently considered. Turning again to 
 go, she said :
 
 18 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "I suppose you very superior people think me 
 foolish. Mrs. Hunter says I have an analytic 
 mind." 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Mary Fairthorne; "you have 
 many, many gifts, dear, but 
 
 "Oh, don't scold me!" cried Kitty. "I do not 
 mind Margaret, but I do love you, and when you 
 lecture me, I I am getting to be too old to be lec- 
 tured by the entire family. Kiss me, and don't 
 scold. ' ' She was herself demonstrative in her affec- 
 tion, and was prone to take as evidence of want of 
 J- it her cousin's disinclination to physical expres- 
 sions of a very real attachment. It was real, but 
 > the nobler woman would have found it hard to ex- 
 plain why she liked this girl. Few of us can suffi- 
 J ciently analyze many of our attachments, perhaps 
 because they are attachments, the offspring of habit, 
 propinquity, and the claims which weakness makes 
 on the higher nature. 
 
 Kitty had that surface amiability which is a 
 little uncertain and very far from the self-sacri- 
 ficing heroism of really good temper. 
 
 "You shall tell me all about Mrs. Hunter, dear, 
 another time, ' ' said Mary ; " it is I who was foolish. ' ' 
 She did not say how or why. Rising, she kissed the 
 girl tenderly. 
 
 "I think I hear Uncle John." 
 
 "Then I must run; I shall go down the back-stair. 
 He has been at me all day my first day at home- 
 to arrange those new autographs, such stupid, tire- 
 some trash." 
 
 "Run, dear," cried Mary, laughing, and, gather-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 19 
 
 ing her skirts, Kitty fled as ordered. This sort of 
 mild vexation was a more frequent thing in her life 
 than Mary Fairthorne liked. While outspoken anger 
 was rare with her and like a storm in its physi- 
 cal and moral consequences, her daily encounters 
 with two antagonistic and unsympathetic natures 
 merely resulted in irritation and never disturbed 
 ^er long. She looked up at the clock, closed and 
 locked her diary, and sat down to resolute work on 
 the task from which Kitty had fled. 
 
 The table at which she seated herself was of un- 
 usual size, and was nearly covered with portfolios, 
 each carefully labelled and numbered. She laid 
 aside one after another, lingering with interest over 
 the labels and contents. At last she found the one 
 she was looking for; on it lay a sheet of note-paper 
 upon which was written, "Arrange chronologically, 
 J. F." They were letters of Lord Byron, a dozen 
 or more, some to women, an angry missive to Lord 
 Carlisle, etc. As she ended her simple task, she said 
 to herself: 
 
 "He needed a woman friend who was not in love 
 with him. He must have been interesting. I should 
 like to have known him. I suppose there never was 
 a thoughtful woman who has read his letters who 
 did not wish she had known him." As she closed 
 the portfolio, and wrote under the label, "Arranged 
 in order of years, ' ' she heard a step, and, rising, said : 
 
 "I hope you are feeling better, Uncle John." 
 
 "There is nothing the matter with me," he re- 
 plied. "I hope you have been careful as to those 
 dates."
 
 20 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "I have been so," she returned. "Is there any- 
 thing else, sir?" 
 
 " Where is Kitty? I have had no account of her 
 expenditures while she was away. She is very care- 
 less. Send her here." 
 
 "She has gone to Margaret Swan wick's." 
 
 "She ought to have been here; I told her to be 
 here." 
 
 Mary made no reply, and he added : 
 
 "I am constantly neglected. I shall have to hire 
 a secretary, and that with two idle girls in the 
 house." Again receiving no answer from the tall 
 girl, who stood beside his chair, he said: 
 
 "Why the devil don't you say something?" 
 
 "I should only have to repeat, sir, what I say 
 every day." 
 
 He did not reply to this, but asked again to have 
 Kitty sent to him, and again his niece said : 
 
 "She is out. I think I mentioned that she has 
 gone to see Madge." 
 
 "I suppose," he replied, "that you think I am 
 losing my memory. ' ' 
 
 "Hardly, uncle; it is altogether too good." It 
 was for all causes of irritation, but for other matters 
 it had become, of late, irregularly uncertain. He 
 was a slowly failing old man. 
 
 "Well," he said, "that will do just now. See if 
 this account be correct, Write to Mr. Pilgrim that 
 I should like, at his leisure, to talk to him about the 
 Kanawha coal lands. Ask when he will be in the 
 city. I shall dine in my room, Mary. I am going 
 to lie down now. As to Kitty Oh, I forgot!
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 21 
 
 Damn everything! One ought to be shot at forty- 
 fiveno, at fifty." And so concluding, he left her 
 to her toil over a complicated account. As he went 
 out, he turned. 
 
 "Who the deuce is this Mrs. Hunter Kitty is rav- 
 ing about? Hunter? Hunter? A good name in 
 Virginia and Rhode Island." The old man's mem- 
 ory for genealogical details was remarkable and at 
 times perilously competent. 
 
 "I do not know," returned Mary. "Kitty has 
 many sudden enthusiasms about people. They do 
 not last long." 
 
 "You would be better for a few," he said sharply, 
 and so left her. 
 
 "Now I wonder if that be true," thought Mary 
 Fairthorne, as she turned to her task. "No, it is 
 not true. Kitty's accounts! He will never see 
 them, or I am much mistaken." After very care- 
 fully revising her arithmetical results, she wrote 
 "Correct" on a slip of paper, and pinned it to the 
 account. 
 
 Next she took a fresh sheet, and began to write to 
 Mr. Pilgrim, but, perceiving that the paper bore her 
 own monogram, she tore it up, took a sheet from the 
 other table, and, after a few moments of reflection, 
 wrote to the rising engineer a very formal letter 
 with the signature, "John Fairthorne, per M. F."
 
 Ill 
 
 the year 1682 John Fairthorne, the 
 youngest son of a small squire of County 
 Essex, emigrated to Pennsylvania. The 
 Fairthornes had lived and died among 
 their turnips in tranquil decency, with 
 no distinguishing excess of vices or virtues. They 
 were small gentlefolk and contented, neither rising 
 nor falling in the social scale. The younger sons 
 were, by custom and of necessity, tumbled out of the 
 home nest and disposed of in the army or navy or, 
 more rarely, in business. Generally they did well, 
 but no Fairthorne was ever spoken of as a man of 
 distinction. The women had notable beauty, and the 
 race was tall and sturdy. 
 
 John Fairthorne, the emigrant, was a serious 
 youth, and pleased Mr. Penn, the proprietary, al- 
 though he never gave up the Church of England. 
 He had of Penn, for one hundred pounds, five thou- 
 sand acres in and about the Welsh barony in Chester 
 County, then by no means so important or valuable 
 a possession as it looks to the modern view. Fair- 
 thorne soon sold his land, became a trader in furs, 
 and by and by had coasters and trafficked with the 
 other colonies. He became rich, and had sons and 
 daughters. In their new environment, that hap-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 23 
 
 pened to the Fairthornes which happened to many 
 children of English race whose people had made no 
 mark in the older land. 
 
 From the time John Fairthorne landed in Penn- 
 sylvania the Fairthornes became and remained peo- 
 ple of signal importance. In every generation some 
 one of them rose to distinctive place. They had a 
 hand in every war and in time of peace won suc- 
 cess at the bar or in the ventures of East Indian 
 commerce. They were notably few in number, long 
 livers, and well-built, handsome folk. Calmly as- 
 sured of their own position, they were generally sen- 
 sitive as to familiar approach, and had been, per- 
 haps because of a certain gravity and good sense, 
 fortunate in their marriages. In early colonial 
 days they were of Penn's council. Later they be- 
 came rebellious subjects of the crown; still later, 
 stanch Federalists, and when the great Civil War 
 broke out they were sturdy republicans. John and 
 Mary were favored names among them, but no one 
 of them was ever known as Jack or Molly. 
 
 John, the eldest of the few Fairthornes left in 
 Pennsylvania for they had scattered widely was 
 a man who had added largely to inherited wealth. 
 This John married, when young, a wife who, dying, 
 left him childless. As sometimes chances, one of the 
 minor qualities of a strong breed rose in his case 
 into disabling power, so that, as life went on, his 
 dislike of democratic familiarities and close contacts 
 with men gradually caused his withdrawal from all 
 forms of public usefulness. He became a self-cen- 
 tered man, uselessly learned, and with a fondness
 
 24 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 for rare books and autographs. He had, too, in an 
 extreme degree the liking for method which all his 
 people possessed. By descent and training a very 
 courteous and formal man to those he did not know 
 well, he was too often otherwise in his own home. 
 Nature, latent gout, and having outlived the time 
 of balanced faculties made him irritable and exact- 
 ing, even to those he loved the best, or, perhaps I 
 should say liked the best. He had preferences, but 
 lacked affections. He had been left the guardian 
 of the persons and moderate estates of the orphan 
 children of a brother and sister; Mary represented 
 the finer qualities of his race and was a woman of 
 wide intellectual and human sympathies, while her 
 uncle's were languid or had dwindled, owing to the 
 atrophy of disuse. Kitty, despite her lightness, was 
 apparently the person he came most near to loving, 
 but she had not her cousin's power to influence his 
 decisions. He was now beginning to feel the depen- 
 dency of breaking health and was bitterly resenting 
 it. As to what else he was, or became, this story 
 may show. 
 
 The house which Kitty entered to visit her cousins, 
 the Swanwicks, was far away from that Fourth 
 Street neighborhood, which fashion was slowly giv- 
 ing up to commerce and finance. It was not large, 
 and was built in a way peculiar to the city, with 
 back buildings which left room for side-light and 
 some space for the garden area behind it. 
 
 Kitty, who knew well her cousin Margaret's dis- 
 like to being pursued up-stairs, sat down in the par- 
 lor and looked about her. The room was too severely
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 25 
 
 furnished with inherited claw-toed tables and 
 straight-backed chairs to suit Miss Morrow's views, 
 and indeed an antique disregard for comfort was in 
 every line of the inhospitable seats. A few impor- 
 tant pieces of old Dresden and two portraits by 
 Sully in his rather thin manner, were all that there 
 was to relieve the hardness of the furnishings; and 
 yet the room had an air of distinction, and there was 
 no lack of taste in curtain, carpet, or wall-paper. 
 Several miniatures stood on the mantel. Its cool, 
 gray marble and the brass fender and firedogs, 
 aglow with the light of a hickory-wood fire, gave to 
 the room a look of being in habitual use. Kitty 
 looked about her with critical comment, disliking the 
 old-fashioned furniture. 
 
 But nothing pleased or displeased her very long. 
 As she rose at the sound of coming steps, a slightly 
 built, rather small woman appeared in the doorway. 
 She wore a simple gray linen gown and carried a 
 basket of keys. 
 
 ''Oh, you dear thing," cried Kitty, kissing her 
 again and again. 
 
 The older woman submitted to Kitty's caresses 
 with faint internal protest, and then, holding her 
 off, said: 
 
 ''How pretty you are, dear. Oh, if I were a man 
 I should-" 
 
 "Marry me?" 
 
 " I do not know about that, ' ' said Mrs. Swanwick : 
 "certainly I should make love to you. What a fine 
 gown ! ' ' 
 
 "I have come for a good long talk," said Kitty.
 
 26 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "I ran away when Uncle John came in, and I have 
 so many things to tell you. Imagine it, he wanted 
 to see my accounts. ' ' 
 
 "Is it so, dear?" said Margaret, as if it were 
 a novelty. "But not to-day, dear; I cannot talk to 
 you now. Harry has some men to dine, and I am 
 busy. ' ' It was true, but, besides this, Margaret well 
 knew that Kitty's desire to pour out her flow of dis- 
 connected social items would lessen after she had 
 sufficiently repeated them to others. Margaret, who 
 had an orderly and trained mind, hated few things 
 so much as Kitty's mild flow of gossip. 
 
 "I think," she once said, "that I could stand it 
 better if it were even a bit wicked; but Kitty is 
 good because she is not bad. ' ' Margaret was herself 
 valuably and variously sweet tempered. Seeing 
 Kitty's look of disappointment, she said: 
 
 "Come up to the library and see Harry. If I 
 let you go without seeing him I shall hear of it. 
 How is Mary? I have not seen her for nearly a 
 week." 
 
 Miss Kitty said that Mary was quite useless as 
 sister or cousin ; that between Uncle John and chari- 
 ties and this and that it was impossible to get her to 
 listen to the most serious things. 
 
 "Such as ?" asked Mrs. Swanwick, demurely. 
 
 "Oh, last night, about a question of dogma. Mr. 
 Knell wood wrote to me you see, I had asked him 
 about it before I went away." 
 
 ' ' Dogma ! ' ' said Mrs. Swanwick, vastly amused. 
 Miss Kitty assumed an air of gravity and related at 
 length that the question of dogma concerned the
 
 v/ 
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 27 
 
 proper material for candles to be used on the altar. 
 Mrs. Swanwick was not rash enough to inquire if 
 she had put the question to her rector in this shape ; 
 she imagined her sister Mary's amusement, and since 
 she was wise enough to know her cousin for one of 
 the many daughters of Sir Forcible Feeble, she 
 wasted no mental ammunition in intellectual con- 
 tests with Kitty. Not listening to Kitty, who fol- 
 lowed her, she went along the hall thinking of what 
 the girl would be at forty and only recovered con- 
 sciousness of what Kitty was saying when she asked 
 about the children. She had toys for them, and 
 might she not return to dine? Margaret said no, 
 that it was a man's dinner, a lot of old army com- 
 rades; nothing but war talk; she herself would be 
 the only woman, and her table was full. Kitty, 
 laughing, declared that she would come and sit at a 
 side table, and who could she have with her ? Then, 
 feeling that she had been very witty, she asked if 
 Margaret had any errands down-town. As she lin- 
 gered on the stair, a masculine voice called out, as 
 its owner descended : 
 
 ' ' Halloa ! Kitty Sunshine ! Why did n 't you call 
 me, Margaret?" His wife made no reply. ''Come 
 up-stairs, " he said. 
 
 They went up to the second story of the back 
 building. 
 
 "I like this better," said Miss Morrow. "I hate 
 your parlor. ' ' 
 
 The room was full of books ; on one wall were law 
 reports and treatises, on the other all manner of 
 books. A half dozen good prints filled the vacant
 
 28 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 spaces on the walls ; a single small spring landscape 
 by Iimess hung over the mantel, and beneath it a 
 cavalry saber. Below the windows were two very 
 business-like tables. 
 
 Harry Swanwick picked up his still lighted pipe 
 from the pile of leather-clad law-books. 
 
 "Well, Kitty, what is the news? Tom Masters 
 told me you had returned. He says you have a new 
 idol. I thought he was himself pretty well cap- 
 tured. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, that is an old affair," said Miss Kitty. 
 
 "Bother! I don't mean you. Tom is a lot too 
 good for you, or any woman except one who is un- 
 attainable. Tom was radiating praise, the material 
 for which he seemed to have absorbed at Newport." 
 
 "She is certainly worthy of it," said Miss Mor- 
 row, with emphasis of the nodded head ; "a most 
 remarkable woman, Harry; really, a woman with 
 that rare quality of charm it is so impossible to de- 
 fine." Margaret cast a look of quickly controlled 
 mirth at her husband, who knew better than to be- 
 tray his own sense of amusement. 
 
 "Who the deuce is your charmer, Kit?" 
 
 "Mrs. Hunter, ' ' said Kitty. ' ' Lucretia Hunter. ' ' 
 
 "Did she ask you to call her Lucretia?" said Mar- 
 garet, with one of those too efficient glimpses of in- 
 sight which, except for her husband, she rarely put 
 in words, but with which she sometimes surprised 
 people. 
 
 "How did you know that?" said Kitty, a trifle 
 sharply. 
 
 "I did not know, I guessed," laughed her cousin.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 29 
 
 "Who is she?" asked Harry. 
 
 "Now that is just the kind of thing," said Kitty, 
 with severity, "which makes people in New York 
 say we are provincial." 
 
 "Well, Kit," he returned, "we still have quality 
 and distinctiveness, a civic soul, if that is to be pro- 
 vincial. ' ' 
 
 "I do not think I understand you, Harry. Mary 
 and you are so vague sometimes." 
 
 "Mary vague!" cried Mr. Swanwick. "Good 
 heavens ! But really, my dear Kit, what with you 
 and Tom I am becoming curious. Is she hand- 
 some ? ' ' 
 
 "Ye-es," said Kitty. 
 
 "The witness seems in doubt," said Margaret. 
 
 "Oh, but she is," cried Kitty; "and so intel- 
 lectual" 
 
 "A widow?" asked Swanwick. 
 
 "Yes, I believe so, and she has had so much sor- 
 row in her life." 
 
 "Did you see her often?" asked Margaret. 
 
 "Often? Yes, ever so often at Newport. She 
 was staying with the Wenhams. They met her in 
 Europe and then she was on the boat with us. 
 They adore her. You will see her. She is coming 
 here soon. Bless me, what time is it? I forgot to 
 wind my watch. Not after five! Really! I must 
 go."
 
 IV 
 
 [HEN husband and wife were left alone 
 together in the library they gladly 
 shared in common, Margaret took up a 
 freshly arrived number of Dickens 's 
 last book and, seated beside the smol- 
 dering wood fire, continued to talk as she cut the 
 leaves with careful respect for neatness. Presently 
 she said to her husband, who was at his own table : 
 "Are you busy, Harry?" 
 "I not if you want anything, Madge." 
 "Do you know what day it is?" 
 ' ' Do I, indeed ? Do you, Madge ? ' ' 
 "Yes. It reminds me of how young and foolish 
 I was." 
 
 "And me of how clever I was to get my head in 
 the way of a saber, in order to decide what answer 
 I should get to a letter. It was rash, but it won 
 the trick." 
 
 As he turned from his table she smiled, and met 
 his seeking blue eyes with a look which somehow 
 made a smile interpret love, respect, and thank- 
 
 In 1862, at the close of a short leave, Captain 
 Swanwick had returned to the Sixth Pennsylvania
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 31 
 
 Cavalry just in time to stop a revolver bullet and to 
 receive a saber cut from a South Carolina gentleman 
 in the gallant mellay known as the fight at Brandy 
 Station. Two days later, a young girl in Philadel- 
 phia, anxiously reading the list of killed, wounded, 
 and missing, looked up and said faintly: 
 
 "Mother! Harry Swanwick is wounded mor- 
 tally. I must go to him at once at once." 
 
 Mrs. Fairthorne, who was one of the Maryland 
 Grays, and as brave as the rest of them, said: 
 
 "You were in doubt, dear, yesterday." 
 
 "I was now I am not." 
 
 Then the mother, being wise enough never to be- 
 lieve a newspaper until it had said the same thing 
 for three days, said : ' ' You must stay at home. We 
 do not do that kind of thing. I will go. If he is 
 to die I will wire you to come." 
 
 The young woman, who was very white and long- 
 ing to scream with the pain of it, said quietly: 
 
 "Yes, but go soon at once! I will write a letter 
 for him if he be able to read it." 
 
 Captain Swanwick was very ill when Mrs. Fair- 
 thorne came down to the hospital camp at Flour- 
 town, and, acting on the advice of the young sur- 
 geon, Sydney Archer, ventured to carry North a 
 man in deadly peril. He was put in the officers' 
 hospital in Camac's woods, and, slowly mending, 
 found that for him active service was over. 
 
 The day he read Miss Margaret Fairthorne 's letter 
 had been ever since kept by them as an anniversary 
 of which they spoke to no one. Now he said : 
 
 "It was ten minutes to nine when I read it. If
 
 32 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 you can't wait, Madge, even that long, go down to 
 the parlor, and under the big Dresden bowl " 
 
 Before he could finish she was out of the room 
 and on the stair. Moods of childlike joy and gaiety 
 were a part of the pleasantness of this woman, who 
 had also the grave good sense of the Fairthornes, 
 with more sentiment, wit, intellect, and definiteness 
 of mind than ever a one of the breed since John, the 
 first, sat in the house cave he had dug on the banks 
 of the Delaware. Unlike the rest of her race, she 
 was slight and small. 
 
 f Mr. Swanwick was invalided, unfit for war and, 
 after declining a brevet as he had before refused 
 promotion, he married this Margaret Fairthorne, the 
 much elder sister of Mary. She nursed him into 
 sound health, and in the two years it required, as he 
 meant to go to the bar, she began to read law-books 
 to him. She soon found satisfaction in the lofty 
 reason and equity on which the great structure has 
 risen. She enjoyed the accuracy of it, of what she 
 startled Harry one day by calling the mathematics 
 of right and wrong. When, at last, he could use 
 his eyes and task his head, she quietly let the study 
 drop, and for wise reasons of her own made believe 
 to have quite forgotten Kent and Blackstone. It 
 was a sacrifice firmly made. She had readily assimi- 
 lated the law, and surprised herself by the ability 
 with which she anticipated the judgments and deci- 
 sions of great jurists, as she and her husband read 
 and talked. About the time that she began to sus- 
 pect she possessed a better legal mind than Harry 
 Swanwick he had regained his usual vigorous health.
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 33 
 
 He was straightforward, upright, industrious, and 
 of good sense and fair intelligence. The wife was 
 of ampler mind. A great affection united them. 
 / At times he had had, ever since his wound, severe ^ 
 // headaches, when he was apt to be irritable and hasty. 
 As years went on his and her connections and the 
 deaths of middle-aged seniors at the bar, pushed him 
 forward. Men liked this courteous gentleman, and 
 they prospered. How much the woman was or stood 
 for in the partnership she hid even from him, mag- 
 nanimous as only love can be. Perhaps he knew, 
 better than she thought, the largeness of the mental 
 and moral capital thus lovingly invested. Only a 
 masculine mind so great as not to have needed her 
 help could have fully seen and thanked it, and yet 
 he listened. 
 
 She came back, swift and graceful, holding up the 
 hand on which a ruby shone, and crying: 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Harry! What an extrava- 
 gance ! ' ' and, leaning over as he sat, she kissed the 
 red scar which crossed cheek and temple. There 
 was some pretty, tender talk, which I shall not re- 
 port, and at last she said : 
 
 "Did you ask Dr. Archer to come in and see my 
 Jack?" 
 
 ' ' Yes, he dines here. I asked him to replace Wes- 
 ton, but he will come in before dinner. I had a 
 little talk with him about your Uncle John." 
 
 "Well, Harry?" 
 
 \s "He thinks that he is breaking up, not here or 
 there, in any one organ, but a general well, what 
 he described as a slackening of all the complicated 
 
 3
 
 34 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 gearing of mind and body; perhaps, too, a weak 
 heart." 
 
 "How like him, Harry. How fond he is of illus- 
 tration! I wish he cared for Mary rather than for 
 Kitty. But ten men oh, of the best of you! 
 would ask for Kitty, where one would ask for 
 Mary." 
 
 "I am glad," he said, laughing, "that I am not 
 of the best." 
 
 "Foolish fellow! Come and see the children 
 and, oh! You were interrupted last night what 
 did you conclude as to the Stoneville railroad? 
 Shall you ask to have a receiver appointed?" 
 
 "We have not decided. The Republic Trust Com- 
 pany I mean its officers are in doubt. They hold 
 largely for themselves and others of its securities 
 bonds, of course." 
 
 "Was it you, Harry, who thought it might be best 
 to wait until the eastward movement of grain, and 
 see if the bonds would be lifted in value?" 
 
 "And then get rid of them, Madge. Receiver- 
 ships are disastrous. I did not say that, or did I? 
 I will think it over " 
 
 "Is n't that trust company paying unusual divi- 
 dends?" 
 
 "Yes, dear; too large, I think. I sold all our 
 stock when we bought our house. Mr. Fairthorne 
 must be a heavy owner of its stock; but, really, I 
 know little of their condition; I am only their 
 counsel, and not always consulted as I should 
 be." 
 
 "Indeed!" she said, and went with him up-stairs
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 36 
 
 to the nursery, thoughtful. Jack was riding to bat- 
 tle on a chair, and Retta, which was short for Mar- 
 garet, was, from the dignity of four-year-old mater- 
 nity, entreating Jack not to wake the baby a large 
 rag-doll, preferred before a family of dolls lovely 
 and accomplished.
 
 I HE October days went by, and the 
 leaves, drifting down, marked like the 
 sands in an hour-glass the failing 
 hours of autumn. Kitty, who pro- 
 fessed to feel, and perhaps did feel, the 
 gentle sadness of the fall, kept up a voluminous cor- 
 respondence with Mrs. Hunter. She was fond of 
 letter-writing, and wrote in brief childlike sentences, 
 which, however, gave her new friend, by degrees, 
 and in answer to her guarded questions, all that she 
 desired to learn of Kitty's relatives and their sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter had found a room at the top of an 
 unfashionable hotel in New York, and now, as she 
 stood with a letter of Kitty's in her hand, she looked 
 at the soiled carpet, the not over-clean furniture, 
 and the whitewashed wall, dotted with red splotches 
 where uneasy lodgers in the past had revenged them- 
 selves on the gorged mosquito. Mrs. Hunter was a 
 lover of luxury, and herself neat by nature. The 
 room smelled musty. She lifted a sash and let in 
 the cool evening air. 
 
 Thinking to find from Kitty's letter what day it 
 was, she turned to the first page. Kitty had forgot- 
 ten to date it, a not rare omission on her part. She
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 37 
 
 wrote "private" at the top of all of her letters, even 
 the most trivial notes, and sacredly guarded them 
 by a fold of white paper from inquisitive eyes. She 
 wrote : 
 
 "DEAR LTTCRETIA : I have just been arranging, for my uncle, 
 some letters of my great-grandfather." 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. Hunter, and stopped to 
 make a memorandum in a note-book, "Mem. Jn. F., 
 member Constitutional Convention of 1787 to read 
 of him mem. autographs?" Then she returned to 
 the letter : 
 
 " Mary does not approve of my writing to you. I do not 
 know why. I am the best judge. I have bought the sweet- 
 est little ring for you. I know Mary would not like this, but 
 it is because she does not know you. "When she does, I shall 
 be jealous. I hope you will never speak of the ring. My uncle 
 insists on seeing my accounts every month. I do not believe 
 he goes over them. This time I could not find them. I sup- 
 pose when I go to confession I must tell. That is another 
 thing about which Mary and I differ. I go to St. Agnes's and 
 she likes that stuffy old Christ Church. The seats are very 
 uncomfortable. How can anyone attend to her soul if the 
 pews are uncomfortable f " 
 
 ' ' How, indeed ? ' ' thought Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 "What you say about self-discipline is so true. I asked 
 Uncle John about the book you spoke of I mean 'Feuehter- 
 sleben's Psychology of the Soul' (I don't believe I spell it 
 right). He has read everything. He said it was pretentious 
 and commonplace. That seems strange! Mr. Knellwood said 
 he had read it, but that he could not as a churchman recom- 
 mend it."
 
 38 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 ' ' I shall be on thin ice, ' ' murmured Mrs. Hunter, 
 who had once read a review of the book. 
 
 " I hope you will soon come. When I told Uncle John that 
 you were interested in autographs, he said I must get him to 
 show you his collection. It is very large. " 
 
 Mrs. Hunter smiled as she sat in her small room 
 at the top of the dingy hotel, and slowly refolded 
 Kitty's letter. 
 
 She said to herself: "I do not yet get at the love 
 affairs of this tall Mary Fairthorne." As to these 
 Miss Morrow was decently reticent, and would not, 
 as yet, have easily betrayed any knowledge she might 
 have possessed. She had her suspicions, but when 
 once she had flippantly intruded on this ground 
 she had been warned off as a trespasser in a manner 
 which left an impression as permanent as it was 
 possible to make on a nature so briefly sensitive. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter wrote in reply: 
 
 " DEAREST KATHERINE : It is years since I read Feuchtersle- 
 ben, but I know it well. It was in a day of sorrow. Whether 
 as a whole I should like it now, I do not know ; but I feel, and 
 shall always feel, that I can trust your judgment to assimilate 
 what is best. Perhaps I might even more readily accept, as a 
 good churchwoman, Mr. Knellwood's opinion, and may some- 
 time be able to discuss it with him. 
 
 " In regard to confession of which you speak so often with 
 the innocent sweetness of a pure soul I have always had but 
 one opinion. To you, were it kind to burden you, I could easily 
 confess the griefs of a life which has been a long and sorrowful 
 struggle against a nature too readily given to trusting others. 
 Since I have known you life has seemed a brighter thing and 
 I am trying to forget the past and to look forward with re- 
 newed hope.
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 39 
 
 "Remember, dear, that, while to you I write from an open 
 heart, these intimate revelations are for you and you only. I 
 hope to be with you, and able to see you often, in a week or 
 two. As my means are limited, I have to be careful. No, I 
 cannot let you help me, as you say you would wish to do. God 
 bless you ! Yours ever and always, 
 
 "LUCRETIA." 
 
 " My article is nearly done. These editors are so impatient." 
 
 (A statement which would probably have amused 
 the gentlemen in question.) 
 
 Mrs. Hunter read this letter with care, and at 
 last inclosed and directed it. 
 
 "And now," she said, "if Lionel does not make 
 any new claims I shall be able to live for three 
 months. 'After that the deluge,' but even then one 
 can go a-fishing." She felt a little weary, but 
 smiled at her jest. As she moved to the open win- 
 dow and looked over the great city to where on the 
 East River the lights were beginning to appear on 
 tug or steamer, a hawk hovered high above her, set 
 dark against the violet glow of the eastward sky. 
 She wondered how and where he fed himself ? Then 
 she turned to a long cheval-glass, which, because of 
 a crack, had been transferred to this upper story. 
 
 What she saw reassured her. She had the art of 
 dress, was skilful in its arrangement, apt with her 
 fingers. She could meet that difficulty ; for the rest 
 she saw a tall woman of fine figure, still hand- 
 some, with something Oriental in the ivory-like tint 
 of skin, the red, thin lips, the somewhat too black 
 and distinct eyebrows over very dark eyes, deep-set 
 and large.
 
 40 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 The twilight darkening, she turned away, went to 
 her trunk, and came back with two half candles, 
 which she set in the tilted, battered candlesticks on 
 each side of the glass. Next, she lighted the sin- 
 gle gas-jet, and, returning, again faced the mirror. 
 Something in the situation called upon her imagina- 
 tion and it became fertile. She tilted the long mir- 
 ror and stood still, wondering how many girls, brides, 
 , the newly married, the old, the wretched, had con- 
 J fessed themselves with joy, wonder, fear, despair, to 
 this long-abandoned confidant. Then she started 
 back with a cry. Something behind her in the dimly 
 lighted room took the shape of a gaunt face, seen 
 over her shoulder in the glass. It was a cap, hung 
 on a nail. She said: "Pshaw!" but took it down, 
 and again looked into the mirror. Some one of her 
 imaginings became a memory, and suddenly she 
 dropped on the floor, her face in her hands, her dark 
 hair tumbled about her. 
 
 "What a fool I was!" The candles, set awry, 
 dripped. The gas-jet flared sideways in the sea 
 wind, and still she sat, the hostess of more thoughts 
 than she cared to entertain. A knock startled her. 
 She went to the door. It was the laundress with 
 her linen. Having paid and dismissed her, she went 
 back to the mirror. 
 
 "It will do," she said, and, gathering her dress, 
 curtsied with admirable grace, saying in a low, clear 
 voice, in which there was at times a hardly percep- 
 tible foreign accent: 
 
 "Mr. Fairthorne, I am sure; only a Fairthorne 
 could bow like that. One must have had traditions,
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 41 
 
 ancestors" She laughed. "We must be alone 
 for that. It is pretty strong. How shall I manage 
 it? Or else or else, if that sugary little bon-bon 
 is with me 'I have looked forward, sir, to this so 
 long.' I must be mildly fluttered, afraid, and a 
 little flattery in rising doses. The old bear it well. 
 As time ceases to flatter they like it from anyone. 
 And how for a moment to make a man forget his 
 years? There are ways ways; yes, for men, but 
 not for women. Ah ! Madame Lucretia, best to trust 
 to the inspiration of opportunity. Yes," she cried, 
 "I am more than handsome; I have power, attrac- 
 tionwhat that commonplace man called 'charm.' 
 He might prove manageable. I wonder if he is 
 caught in the sugar-plum's net? Well, some day 
 '/"she will tell me."
 
 VI 
 
 IN the afternoon in which Mrs. Hun- 
 ter had taken account of her muni- 
 tions of war, Sydney Archer rang the 
 door-bell of John Fairthorne's home. 
 As he waited, Mrs. Harry Swanwick 
 came up the steps. 
 
 ' ' I hope Uncle John is not ill, ' ' she said. ' ' I have 
 been away for two days." 
 
 "No," he replied. "Mr. Fairthorne likes now to 
 see me daily; but, as a rule, we talk autographs or 
 the last book. You know how interesting he can be 
 when he is interested. He loses me a good deal of 
 time." 
 
 "I suppose that can't be helped." 
 "Oh, no! If one could go from bed to bed, and 
 simply be the technical engineer of human machines, 
 it would be easy; but these machines have mothers, 
 and wives, and notions. One has to listen and pre- 
 scribe for anxieties, and splint broken hopes." 
 
 "The servants must be deaf or asleep," she said, 
 as she rang again; "they are as uncertain as" she 
 laughed "well, as the art of medicine." 
 
 "I admit the uncertainty," he returned pleas- 
 antly; "that is part of its interest." 
 
 "Oh, it is bad enough," she said, "to be the wisely 
 42
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 43 
 
 ignorant patient, but I should hate to follow so 
 illogical a profession." 
 
 "It is not that, but shall I ring again?" 
 
 "Please." He pulled the bell as only a doc- 
 tor can. 
 
 "They are usually prompt," he said. 
 
 "It is really too bad. Does n't Uncle John's auto- 
 graph mania bore you ? ' ' 
 
 "Only when I am busy, and have to let him talk. 
 It is a privilege of age to bore people." 
 
 The door was thrown open in competitive haste 
 by the old black butler and a maid, who muttered 
 profuse apologies. As they turned to enter the 
 house a man passed on the far side of the street. 
 The doctor returned his salutation. 
 
 "Who is that?" asked Mrs. Swan wick. 
 
 "Mr. Grace." 
 
 "Ah! Roger Grace, the banker! Now, that is a 
 man I am quite curious about. He has taken a 
 very useful fancy to Harry. Do you know him ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes. What I have seen of him I like. He is a 
 son of the soil what people call a 'self-made man. 7 ' 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 ' ' The soil must have been rich. ' ' They were now 
 in the wide hall at the foot of the stairs. 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Swan wick, I suppose that man makes 
 more in a year than I shall save in a lifetime. He 
 deserves it, too. Money never fell into kinder hands, 
 as I once had reason to know." 
 
 Meanwhile the two old blacks were blaming one 
 another, and explaining volubly that Miss Kitty had 
 sent the other servant on an errand.
 
 44 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "That will do, Peter," said Mrs. Swanwick. "I 
 have heard all this before. Come into the parlor, 
 Dr. Archer. And would you change lives with Mr. 
 Grace?" 
 
 ' ' I ! No, indeed, ' ' he laughed, " not I ! " 
 "Tell my uncle that Dr. Archer is here, Peter. 
 Harry speaks of Mr. Grace as very generous, and 
 says he is taken of late with social ambitions. That 
 does seem to me a belated fancy for a man of forty, 
 who has had a mere business life " 
 
 "There is more in that man than business talent. 
 If you knew him even as slightly as I do you would 
 not think his ambition unreasonable. You and I, 
 who are born to it, having it without effort, may 
 undervalue it." 
 
 "You may be right." As she spoke, Miss Fair- 
 thorne came into the room. 
 
 "Good morning, Dr. Archer; my uncle will see 
 you. When he lets you go, I should like to see you 
 a moment. My uncle is at times very hard to keep 
 to your orders. You doctors ought to supply moral 
 remedies. ' ' 
 
 "Well, there are love philters," said Madge. 
 "Oh, I want temper philters. Please not to keep 
 him waiting. My cousin Katherine is with him; 
 please to tell her Mrs. Swanwick is here." 
 
 Archer went up-stairs, thinking pleasantly of 
 Kitty. Mary Fairthorne looked after him a mo- 
 ment, and then followed her sister into the back 
 parlor, which, to the westward, overlooked the 
 garden. 
 
 The rooms had been furnished when changing
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 45 
 
 taste had sent the fine old colonial furniture to the 
 attic, and put in its place hideously scrolled chairs 
 and tables of mahogany, ottomans of chenille work, 
 and black hair-cloth sofa and chair covers. The 
 fireplace was closed by a white marble slab, through 
 which opened what we absurdly call the register of 
 the hot-air furnace. A wall-paper of Chinese land- 
 scapes decorated pictureless walls, and on the mantel 
 were a clock and candelabra in the worst taste of the 
 era of the Directory. 
 
 ' ' I shudder, Mary, whenever I enter these rooms, ' ' 
 said Mrs. Swan wick; ''but I am glad grandfather 
 Fairthorne made them hideous, otherwise I should 
 not have captured all that beautiful Sheraton suite. 
 Let us go to your room." 
 
 "No, dear; I must wait here to see Dr. Archer. 
 I once spoke of this furniture to uncle; but he 
 hates change, and as we give neither balls nor din- 
 ners it does not matter. We are very well here. 
 Kitty will not come down; after Uncle John is 
 through with Dr. Archer, Kitty will take him into 
 my little sitting-room to ask about my uncle 's health, 
 etc. This will last twenty minutes or more. After 
 that, Dr. Archer will give me my five minutes, while 
 you call on Uncle John." 
 
 "Does this happen daily?" 
 
 "Yes, if you mean the consultation with Kitty," 
 said Mary, glancing at her sister. 
 
 ' ' Is not this anxiety about her dear uncle of rather 
 recent growth?" 
 
 "How can you ask, Madge? You know Kitty." 
 She spoke with a note of impatience in her voice,
 
 46 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 which none who did not know her well would have 
 observed. She was always a little on her guard 
 when with Margaret. The sisters were aware of 
 their power to see into each other, and were at times 
 uneasily conscious of the fact. This gift of insight 
 arose from no self-interpretative resemblance, since 
 they were as unlike in mind as in body. When Mary 
 replied, Madge said : 
 
 "Well, I hope it is not one of Kit's comedies. I 
 should not like to see Sydney Archer served as Tom 
 Masters has been. If it be a real thing oh, I should 
 hate it ! Harry and I would have to make believe a 
 good deal." 
 
 "It is not a real thing, Madge." 
 
 "It may be too good an imitation, Mary. I sup- 
 pose Nemesis will overtake Kitty some of these 
 days. ' ' 
 
 "Poor little Kitty! Nemesis seems large for 
 her." 
 
 "Poor Kit! You are wasting your charity. Poor 
 little Kitten, if you like. She has neither sense nor 
 compassion. Life for her, my dear sister, is a toy 
 to play with. It has troubled Harry and me. The 
 wisest of men could not influence or educate Kitty ; 
 she is a grown-up child. I am longing to say a word 
 of warning' 
 
 ' ' To Kitty ? You would repent it. ' ' 
 
 "No to Archer," said Madge. 
 
 "What man was ever stopped in a love affair by 
 reason? And yet " 
 
 "Could a woman be, Mary? Could you?" 
 
 "What a question! Yes; but I predict that
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 47 
 
 Kitty's wiles will not wear well. He must, soon or 
 late, find her out. The man's character is too whole- 
 some to be long satisfied by a woman like Kitty. 
 Why I love her I do not know. Even her sugar of 
 amiability is only outside like that of a pill. To 
 think of such an ending for a man like him does 
 seem sad. But I am sure that it will not be." 
 
 "I hope you may prove to be right," said her sis- 
 ter; "and of course no one can be of any use. He 
 will find our light-headed Kitty a costly toy, and 
 only a toy. But why does she capture people? 
 Why do you love her, and Uncle John ? If he loves 
 any one, it is Kit. Frankly, I do not love her." 
 
 "It is as hard to explain likes as dislikes, Madge ; 
 and, after all, although I think I love Kitty, I am 
 not sure that I like her." 
 
 ' ' What a droll distinction ! That sounds more 
 like Luke Pilgrim than like you." 
 
 "What does Harry say?" asked Mary. 
 
 "He laughs and says nothing, except that advice 
 lent unasked loses both self and friend. Of course, 
 dear, Harry is worried. You know what Archer 
 was to us when Harry was wounded, and what he 
 has been ever since." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I know. Sometimes I want to give 
 Kit a good shaking. She has more power to make 
 me angry than ten Uncle Johns. Whenever you 
 touch Kitty she gets small." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Well, she shrinks like some insect, or those queer 
 sea things." 
 
 "I see what you mean, but for me she begins
 
 48 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 small and ends small, and Archer is really a large 
 personality." 
 
 "I think he so impresses most people. When Mr. 
 Pilgrim said he had an 'open-air mind' I thought it 
 well said." 
 
 "Open-air mind! I hate his roundabout English, 
 Mary; but when you folks of poetic temperament 
 and Emersonian expressions vow that you under- 
 stand one another, what can a poor outsider say? 
 In my poor way, I should call Sydney Archer a 
 high-minded gentleman who has too much intellect 
 for the professional uncertainties of medicine." 
 
 "He would not agree with you," said Mary, 
 smiling. 
 
 "No. He is piously devoted to one mistress, and 
 also to Kitty." 
 
 "Well, che sard sard," said Mary. 
 
 "Not if I can help it," thought Mrs. Swan wick. 
 "I want to see him about Jack, and I have but ten 
 minutes. Could you not disturb that tete-a-tete 
 with Kitty?" 
 
 "No," said Mary, "not I." She was vexed to feel 
 that she was flushing slightly. "No, you do not live 
 with our dear Kitty; go and do your own errand, 
 Madge; I shall not help you, my dear." 
 
 "Well, I must go myself, I suppose. If I say, 
 'Pretty Kitty,' she will come like a cat. If you 
 flatter Kit she will do what you want. Try it." 
 
 "Not I." 
 
 "Why not? I say to Jack, 'Here, take this dose, 
 and you shall have this nice bon-bon. ' I give Kitty 
 the bon-bon first, and the dose afterward. It does
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 49 
 
 not answer always. I am just a little fearful that 
 this Mrs. Hunter may have won Kitty's heart by 
 my own base means ; but why any woman as clever 
 as she must be thinks it worth while to cultivate our 
 empty-headed Kit, I do not see." 
 
 "Nor I. They write like two lovers." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 "Yes, and twice Kitty, with an air of mysterious 
 importance, has mentioned letters to Mr. Knellwood 
 which Mrs. Hunter asked her to forward. Why the 
 woman cannot write direct to a man so well known I 
 cannot see." 
 
 "Because, dear," said Madge, "you are direct; 
 and as to Kitty Mrs. Hunter won't last. If you 
 would natter Kitty you would have an easier time." 
 
 Mary Fairthorne, smiling, shook her head. 
 
 "I do not know. When I try it I feel as if I were 
 fibbing, and I am, too, in a way." 
 
 "I think," said Madge, "I shall ask Dr. Soper to 
 attend you for hypertrophied conscience; or per- 
 haps," she added, with meek malice, "you may pre- 
 fer Dr. Archer. Here he comes; I am saved my 
 perilous errand." 
 
 "He is not my M.D.," laughed Mary. 
 
 "How is uncle to-day?" asked Madge, as the doc- 
 tor, hearing their voices, entered the somber draw- 
 ing-room. Archer laughed as at some humorous 
 recollection : 
 
 "He has three new symptoms and four new 
 autographs. One is a letter of William Harvey, the 
 discoverer of the circulation. I am sure it is a for- 
 gery, but I did not say so." 
 
 4
 
 50 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Mary looked up. 
 
 "That was wise and well. It would only annoy 
 him." 
 
 "Yes," he said; "one must praise whatever he 
 has or acquires. Then he will do what I want, Miss 
 Mary, and I do assure you he has good need to 
 obey me. " 
 
 "And this man does not see through Kitty!" 
 thought Mary. 
 
 Mrs. Swanwick cast an amused glance at her sis- 
 ter, who seemed unready to reargue the point of 
 conscience. Dr. Archer continued: 
 
 "I used to fight some of his queer theories as to 
 education, religion, or morals. Now I listen and act 
 as chorus. It is sad to stand by and watch the crum- 
 bling of a strong intellect ; but he is still very inter- 
 esting very. ' ' 
 
 "You will come to see him every day, please," 
 said Mrs. Swanwick; "Jack is better. There is no 
 need to call to-day." 
 
 "Thank you," he returned. "What a pleasant 
 dinner that was ! ' ' 
 
 "Yes," she said; "I liked the war talk and that 
 story Mr. Masters told of Harry. I had never 
 heard it. I must tell it to you, Mary." 
 
 "I saw how it pleased you," returned Archer, 
 "and so did Tom Masters." Archer had a vast 
 admiration for Margaret Swanwiek's combination 
 of strength, tact, and goodness, and he was one of 
 the men who profess to believe that women make the 
 best friends. 
 
 "Good-bye," he said. As he spoke, tall, fair, blue-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 51 
 
 eyed, he looked down on his friend's graceful slight- 
 ness, and then at the nobly modeled girl, whose too 
 cold hand awakened his professional instincts, and 
 made him consider her with brief attention. He 
 concluded, as he drove away, that this uneasy house- 
 hold was enough to account for her look of care. 
 Or was it care? With characteristic self-study, he 
 began to ask himself why Miss Kitty was so attrac- 
 tive. It was fast becoming a serious question, and 
 somehow went and came in his mind with the 
 contrasted thought of this other woman, Mary Fair- 
 thorne, whom he called ' ' friend ' ' ; her unstirred se- 
 renitypeople spoke of her as "cold" her calm en- 
 durance; and then again he saw the rosebud Kitty, 
 with her pretty ways, her vivacity, and here his 
 thought was checked by something reminiscent. He 
 had listened with a sense of shock when Tom Mas- 
 ters, long before, had said: 
 
 "Yes, Sydney, Miss Morrow is as agreeable as a 
 woman can be who has no conception of the value 
 ' of repose of mind or body. Perhaps she is just a 
 trifle common." Then he had added : "But I should 
 not have said that." And yet, later, Masters had 
 proved an easy victim. Archer had made no reply, 
 but the criticism stuck in his head like a memorial 
 bur. He had, of late, in Mr. Fairthorne's interest, 
 been obliged to see Miss Fairthorne often, for Miss 
 Kitty generally avoided duties which exacted length 
 of service, and made up for this neglect by a certain 
 affectation of interest which she contributed as her 
 share of the business of caring for a querulous 
 invalid.
 
 52 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 After one of his talks with Kitty, Archer could 
 never remember what she had said, but a talk with 
 Mary left a strong and valid impression of a thought- 
 ful and imaginative mind. Once her uncle had 
 said to him that Mary Fairthorne would be an old 
 maid, that she was cold by nature, and that if men 
 did sometimes fancy themselves in love with a statue, 
 the statue was not very apt to contribute oppor- 
 tunity. Archer had disliked the comment he did 
 not know why. He was dimly aware that Miss Fair- 
 thorne cut short the necessary interviews which 
 Kitty, for herself, managed to lengthen ; and yet he 
 felt that his friendliness of relation with the elder 
 girl increased as time went on, while with Kitty 
 he was conscious of an attraction which he did not 
 incline to analyze, and when with or away from 
 Mary Fairthorne he was aware of an attraction 
 which he found it less hard to explain. Her calm 
 reserve was like a challenge. Men, in general, dis- 
 like to think that there is any woman who cannot be 
 captured. This is the fragmentary survival of an 
 animal instinct. If love could begin both in heart 
 and head, Sydney Archer was in double danger. 
 
 He was driven to his out-clinic, and gave himself 
 head and heart to a business which requires ideal 
 patience, perfect sweetness of character, and sympa- 
 thetic insight. He was far from thought of the 
 girl who stood at the window, unable to escape from 
 importunate reflections as to the man who had just 
 left her. She was deeply troubled. The modest re- 
 serve of a self-contained nature recoiled from self- 
 confession.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 63 
 
 Her days, since at eighteen she had begun to live, 
 an orphan, with her uncle and cousin, had not been 
 happy. Now she was resolutely taking stock of her 
 life. Yes, she had friends women, two or three. 
 Her uncle, who could be royal company, was often, 
 for a week at a time, increasingly capable of wearing 
 out the sweetest temper. And now she was even 
 wrathfully becoming aware that she was too con- 
 stantly thinking of one man. Her peril lay in his 
 character, and the completeness with which it satis- 
 fied her ideals and tempted her imagination. 
 
 Archer was a South Carolinian whose mother had 
 come to the North to educate her children. When 
 the war broke out he had just finished his medical 
 studies. He elected to stand by his country, to the 
 rage of all whom he loved best. For four years he 
 served as a surgeon, and then, having made many 
 friends, settled in the Northern city. He had had 
 a hard struggle to keep himself afloat and to help 
 brothers and sisters left ruined by the war. It had 
 been difficult, but useful. Perhaps in his early life 
 his sense of his own mental powers had made him 
 a little too positive, even a trifle vain. All that had 
 gone, or was going. He was of those who prosper 
 morally in the sunshine of success. He, too, was 
 imaginative, fond of music, and ready with brush or 
 pencil. If any one now knew of his skill, it was 
 when he lectured and the ready hand on the black- 
 board made clear to the eye what he was eagerly 
 striving to teach. 
 
 This habitual giving of the tithes of life to the 
 ward and the clinic, so common that we forget how
 
 64 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 large is the gift, made it natural and easy for Mary 
 Fairthorne to use his contact with the poor as a 
 channel for her generous use of a moderate income. 
 It had brought them more together, and in the 
 paucity of human intercourse to which her reserved 
 nature inclined her, the constant, every-day company 
 of a man as genial as Archer had full chance to 
 affect a woman liberally capable of appreciation. 
 
 He was a man of quick sympathies, nor is it true 
 that to be effective these require the schooling of 
 personal sorrow. He had known only one deep 
 grief, when he had decided to stand by his country 
 1 and saw his mother leave him to go south, refusing 
 his parting kiss. But that was far in the past. Cer- 
 tainly he had the gift of understanding the ner- 
 vously disordered and the mother anguished beside 
 the cot of her child. 
 
 The woman he had left rebelled in all her nature 
 at these too intrusive thoughts of a man who was 
 nominally but a friend. At last, hearing her uncle 's 
 bell, she went up-stairs. 
 
 When Mary entered, Kitty was seated on the arm 
 of his chair. She held one of his hands in her lap, 
 and with the other was gently playing with his hair, 
 which he wore in thick gray curls above the strongly 
 marked features of his race. It was one of his good 
 days, or Kitty would have been otherwise occupied. 
 He had the fondness of some very old men for agree- 
 able women and was at times well pleased when 
 Kitty was, as now, in one of her caressing moods. 
 As he turned at the sound of Mary's step, Kitty 
 kissed him and a letter fell from her lap on to the 
 floor unnoticed.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 55 
 
 ' ' Are you going out this afternoon, Mary ? " he said. 
 
 ' ' Yes, ' ' she replied ; ' ' I ride at four. What can I 
 do for you ? ' ' 
 
 "Stop at the library and ask them to send me 
 Hakewill's 'Apologia.' I want to show Archer a 
 passage about bleeding in the reign of Elizabeth. 
 You might walk there before you ride." As usual, 
 Mary had her hands over-full. 
 
 ' ' Very well, sir ; but, Kitty, could n 't you go ? " 
 
 "I have an engagement, and letters I really must 
 write. ' ' 
 
 "I will get you the book," said Mary. 
 
 "Talking of letters, Mary, Katherine" he never 
 called her Kitty "has had a very interesting letter 
 from Mrs. Hunter. She must be a remarkable 
 woman. She has asked to have my views on a pas- 
 sage in Catullus. I shall write to her, and, by the 
 way, get down the three editions and put them on 
 the table. Katherine could not find them. I have 
 always said you ought to have learned Latin. It 
 will be a pleasure to talk to a woman who reads 
 Catullus. I should like to have his autograph. I 
 should like, by the way, to know what is the oldest 
 autograph extant. ' ' 
 
 Kitty was outside of this kind of talk. Mary's 
 imagination began to wander in the past. 
 
 "Perhaps," she said, "the scrawled name of some 
 Roman soldier upon the walls of the temples on the 
 Nile." 
 
 "Oh, no! The Assyrian tablets would be older." 
 They went on talking. Kitty, a little bored, de- 
 clared that she must go, and remembering that she 
 wanted a novel, said she would order the book her
 
 56 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 uncle had asked for as soon as she had written her 
 letters. Mary thanked her. Sad to say, when Kitty 
 reached the library she had forgotten all about the 
 title, except that it was somebody's "Apology." 
 This resulted in Barclay's "Apology" being sent, 
 of which Mary Fairthorne heard next day to her cost. 
 
 After a pleasant talk with her uncle, such as was 
 becoming rare of late, Mary left Catullus on his 
 table, and as she reminded him that it was time for 
 his afternoon nap, saw on the floor the letter Kitty 
 had let fall. She picked it up and seeing that it 
 was addressed to her cousin took it to Kitty's room 
 and said as she entered : 
 
 "Here is a letter you dropped." 
 
 Kitty flushed, and said quickly : 
 
 "Did you read it?" 
 
 "I? My dear Kitty, I do not read other people's 
 letters. ' ' 
 
 "But it was open. I am sure you read it." 
 
 "I did not, and never, never again" and she 
 laid a strong hand on the little woman's shoulder 
 as she sat "never do you dare to say such a thing 
 to me! I neither lie nor read letters not meant 
 for me." 
 
 "I I did n't mean that," said Kitty, who had 
 been well scared, and began to cry. 
 
 "Well, never, never try me in this way again," 
 and, despite Kitty's sobs, she went out, tall, stately, 
 angry with her cousin, and beginning to be vexed 
 with her own want of self-command. 
 
 Kitty rose, shut the door, rubbed her plump shoul- 
 der, for the grip had been strong, and cast an eye
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 57 
 
 over the letter. She knew that under like circum- 
 stances she herself might have read the letter, and 
 it was characteristic that a residuum of doubt still 
 possessed her mind. At last she reflected, with re- 
 lief, that had Mary really read it she would have 
 been even more angry, for this was a part of what 
 Mrs. Hunter wrote: 
 
 "But enough of the fashions not the most earnest-minded 
 woman can afford to neglect them you have the good sense to 
 know that [Kitty felt the force of this remark]. Sad ex- 
 perience has made me cautious in friendship, but more and 
 more do I feel that to you and with you I can be frank. 
 
 " I can see why, as you say, you are not considered in your 
 uncle's house as you should be. You should assert yourself, 
 and when we are more together I may help you with advice. 
 You are too mature to be governed incessantly by your cousin, 
 and I can well understand why you should resent these petty 
 criticisms of dress and manner. I do not see how either could 
 be improved. 
 
 "Remember, dear, to ask your uncle about the passage in 
 Catullus. Perhaps he will honor me with a word of reply. I 
 am detained here a few days, but hope soon to be with you, 
 and some day to introduce to you my brother Lionel, the best 
 and the handsomest of men." 
 
 Kitty reread this letter, and gave brief thought 
 to Lionel as she locked it up and went out on her 
 uncle's errand. 
 
 Meanwhile Mary Fairthorne rode through the 
 willows of the low-lying Neck-lands at a rate which 
 astonished her old black groom. The ride did her 
 good, body and soul, and care sat less heavily behind 
 the rider as she turned to walk her horse homeward 
 over the paved streets.
 
 VII 
 
 I HE Reverend Cyril Knell wood was the 
 rector of the small church of St. Ag- 
 nes, which a few wealthy parishioners 
 and his own means enabled him to sus- 
 tain with due attention to the High- 
 Church forms which seemed to him essential. He 
 was from conviction celibate. Honest, cautious, and 
 in some ways narrow, he was devoted to his work, 
 and gave himself thoroughly to such unending labor 
 among the poor as would have been more easy if he 
 had fasted less and given his large frame the dis- 
 used tonic of healthful exercise. At his church Miss 
 Kitty lightly professed her creed and said her 
 prayers once a day on Sundays, finding the music 
 and the ceremonial service much to her taste. At 
 times Kitty was religious, as at times she was several 
 other things; but her brief periods of seriousness 
 were usually in some relation to the Reverend Cyril, 
 whose gaunt largeness, ascetic, firmly lined face, and 
 melancholy eyes she greatly admired. Her deli- 
 ciously rosy, gay girlhood was in some way pleasing 
 to the unsuspicious, tired, worn man of middle age; 
 as for Kitty, she would have coquetted with St. 
 Paul. The rector, as yet unaware of his peril, 
 waited for Miss Morrow in the drawing-room, and 
 
 58
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 59 
 
 consulted at intervals a note-book, which he put in 
 his pocket as Miss Kitty entered. She had lingered 
 to change a neck ribbon and to set in order the wil- 
 ful masses of her flaxen hair. 
 
 "God's peace be with you, child," he said, as she 
 came in, rosy, radiant, smiling. 
 
 She said: "Good morning, Father," and went on 
 to ask a number of needless questions as to the music 
 and the services. He answered patiently, in a rather 
 low voice, pleasingly modulated. 
 
 Kitty had seated herself on the black hair-cloth 
 sofa beside him. Presently, moving a little, he said 
 that he had come on a small matter of business, and, 
 rising, went to the window, remarking that his sight 
 was not good. Perhaps it was not; he was slightly 
 near-sighted. He took out his glasses and consid- 
 ered his note-book, after which, returning, he sat 
 down in a chair. This ripe, eager, material beauty 
 disturbed him. He looked up and as it were past 
 her, and felt a momentary sensation of half-ex- 
 plained emotion. 
 
 * ' You look pale, Father, ' ' said Kitty. ' ' Mary says 
 you fast too much. ' ' As she spoke she put a hand on 
 his arm. ' ' Let me get you a glass of wine. ' ' 
 
 "No, no," he said, drawing away; "I am very 
 well." It was not quite true. He was underfed 
 and overworked just in the condition when emo- 
 tions are apt to get out of control. He felt the 
 weakness, and resented the fact that it had been 
 visible to the girl. 
 
 "Perhaps a little cologne," said Kitty, with a 
 gentle note of real anxiety in her tones.
 
 60 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 " I am in no need of it," he said, almost sharply. 
 "I have had, as you know, letters from a Mrs. Hun- 
 ter, who, it seems, intends to spend the winter here. 
 She incloses a letter of warm praise, given, it ap- 
 pears, some years ago by her former rector at Um- 
 stead. He is now dead. She writes very intelli- 
 gently as to her desire to assist in the church work, 
 and refers to you as her friend." 
 
 "Oh, yes, she is a friend of mine, and so good, and 
 so so attractive." 
 
 "I desire to know rather more of her, and of what 
 she wants. Her letters are a little vague." 
 
 "Oh, she can do anything," said Kitty. 
 
 "And still I should like to know more." He was 
 careful, perhaps over-cautious, for not all the women 
 who had asked for his guidance or proffered help 
 had proved to possess the single-minded devotion 
 which accepted the noble-looking priest as one shut 
 out from the world of feminine allurements. Just 
 now, when Kitty had said that Mrs. Hunter was at- 
 tractive, and later that she had such a perfect figure, 
 he reasonably thought it irrelevant and said as much. 
 At last, seeing that Kitty was unable materially to 
 aid his quest, he rose : "Mrs. Hunter spoke of having 
 corresponded with your uncle. I have to see him 
 about another matter. Is he at home ? ' ' 
 
 Kitty said yes; would he come up to the library? 
 As they crossed the room, she took a rose from a vase. 
 
 "Let me put it in your button-hole." 
 
 "I do not wear flowers." 
 
 "Then you must carry it," she cried, gaily. "I 
 cannot have my gifts slighted." He put out an
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 61 
 
 open palm. Her touch, lingering, as she laid the 
 rose on his hand, again disturbed him, while Kitty 
 went on cheerfully: 
 
 "I am afraid I have rather neglected confession 
 of late. I" 
 
 "No matter," he broke in; "we will talk of that 
 another time." He was sternly asking himself if he 
 were a fit confessor for this rosy girl, with her pretty 
 ways. 
 
 Her uncle had always liked the broad-shouldered 
 clergyman, although they had scarcely one opinion 
 in which they were agreed. Once, when he had been 
 asked by Mary why he liked Mr. Knellwood, he had 
 answered : 
 
 "Well, Mary, he is a gentleman, which is rare 
 nowadays. Also, we are at one about nothing, and 
 that adds interest to human interviews ; and finally, 
 my dear, he is very definite, which I like." 
 
 Mary laughed ; she respected Mr. Knellwood, but 
 did not wholly like, perhaps did not understand him. 
 
 "I do not think him definite at all, Uncle John. 
 He has been wobbling feebly for years between two 
 churches, if you call that definite." 
 
 "He does not admit that," and in fact it was not 
 true. "About the churches, I do not care. He is 
 definite enough while it lasts." 
 
 ' ' Ah ! ' ' exclaimed Mary, laughing, ' ' I like that ! ' ' 
 
 "And 'wobble' is an objectionable word." 
 ^ ' ' But expressive, sir. ' ' 
 
 When the servant said "Mr. Knellwood is in the 
 parlor," Mr. Fairthorne, who heard imperfectly, 
 asked :
 
 62 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "What was that? Who is it?" 
 
 Mary replied: "Mr. Knell wood. He is talking to 
 Kitty. He will ask you for money ; he told me yes- 
 terday that he would." 
 
 "They all do that I mean ask for money. I 
 gave him some help last year. The charity is a good 
 one at least you said so." 
 
 ' ' I do not fancy him, uncle ; but as an intelligent 
 engine of charity he is unequaled." 
 
 "He is as wasteful as other engines," said Fair- 
 thorne; "between him and your other mendicants 
 and that blank doctor I am being impoverished. I 
 won't give him a dime." 
 
 "Yes, you will." 
 
 "I hate to give away money and see no results. 
 When you become old you will know that the virtue, 
 the goodness, represented by giving money grows 
 with the years ; the older you are, the harder to give, 
 and the greater credit, I presume." 
 
 "I see no credit in it at all," said Mary, leaning 
 over his chair; "it is the easiest of all duties. I 
 hear Mr. Knellwood ; now, a good large check. ' ' As 
 she was about to leave him, Mr. Knellwood entered, 
 Kitty saying: 
 
 "Here is Father Knellwood, uncle." Mary 
 waited, while Kitty sat down and taking Felisa, the 
 cat, on her lap, began to make her uncomfortable by 
 blowing on her ears. Mr. Fairthorne greeted the 
 rector warmly. Meanwhile, Mr. Knellwood, with his 
 hat on his knees, was glancing with eager longing 
 at the thousands of brilliantly bound volumes about 
 him. Mary Fairthorne leaned against the mantel,
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 63 
 
 looking down from her fair height on the two men, 
 resolute, now that she had not escaped in time, to see 
 that her uncle did not refuse to give. 
 
 "Well, your reverence," said Fairthorne, "is it 
 money or books or theological advice?" 
 
 "Oh!" cried Kitty, as Felisa's temper failing her, 
 she laid a sharp claw on Kitty's white hand and 
 leaped to the floor. 
 
 "The beast!" cried Kitty. 
 
 "You are rightly served," said John Fairthorne, 
 while the girl wrapped a handkerchief about the 
 hand and Cyril Knellwood looked up in wonder that 
 any one could scold her. Kitty pouted for a minute 
 and then, as she was never at rest very long, arose 
 and standing beside her uncle 's chair, began to pose, 
 laying the uninjured hand on his shoulder and pat- 
 ting him tenderly. 
 
 "Damn it!" he said, "let me alone." When 
 weak or ill he liked her caressing ways, but at times, 
 or when others were present, he as plainly disliked 
 them. 
 
 "I do not think you ought to swear before clergy- 
 men," said Miss Morrow. 
 
 "Go to the devil, you goose !" Then he turned to 
 Mr. Knellwood, and with the utmost courtesy said: 
 "Pardon me, it was purely exclamatory." 
 
 Mr. Knellwood, embarrassed, returned: 
 
 "It is of no moment. I did not make the deca- 
 logue." 
 
 Kitty, indignant, walked across the room, sat down 
 at a window, and considered her offended dignity 
 and the garden.
 
 64 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Well," asked Fairthorne, "are you coveting your 
 neighbor's goods, Mr. Knellwood?" 
 
 "I am," said the rector; "but it is not I, it is 
 my Master who asks." 
 
 "And how much, pray? Out with the whole 
 villainy. ' ' 
 
 "The St. Agnes orphanage is in debt, and the 
 interest on the mortgage is in arrears." 
 
 "How much do you want?" 
 
 "We need five hundred dollars. Miss Mary has 
 given me one hundred." 
 
 "Did you not say there were other needs?" said 
 Mary. 
 
 "Yes," he returned, hesitating. 
 
 "Hold your tongue, miss, and give me my check- 
 book. There, will that do?" 
 
 "I thank you in the name of my Master." 
 
 "Well, don't come back soon." 
 
 Mary moved over to his side and saw that he had 
 given eight hundred dollars. She said, smiling : 
 
 "You are very grasping, Mr. Knellwood. Eight 
 hundred ! Thank you, uncle. ' ' 
 
 "The Lord knows why I was such a fool!" 
 
 "Yes, he knows," said Cyril. "I wish your kind 
 of folly were common." 
 
 Kitty, who was as usual in debt, and had lately 
 loaned Mrs. Hunter a modest sum, had early in the 
 day been refused relief by her uncle. Now she rose 
 and left the room without a word a rather unusual 
 exit for her. Seeing Mr. Knellwood about to ex- 
 press his feelings further in some form of thankful 
 statement, Fairthorne said :
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 65 
 
 "Let us drop this matter. Yes, I know; but if 
 there be one thing I hate more than giving money, it 
 is being thanked for it. Console me by taking no, 
 let me send you some of these new books. Here is 
 a life of Servetus and Random 's ' Theories of Divine 
 Methods.' I am keeping this 'History of the Coun- 
 cil of Trent' to bait you about celibacy. Mr. Ran- 
 dom has hit on my favorite idea that the imperfec- 
 tion of this world suggests imperfection in the 
 immediate Creator." 
 
 "Indeed!" said the rector. 
 
 ' ' Yes, considering the ingenuity of Nature and the 
 unlimited possibilities at her disposal, she seems to 
 have bungled pretty badly. ' ' 
 
 "But were they unlimited?" 
 
 ' ' Take care, Mr. Knellwood ! ' ' cried Mary, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 "He thinks," continued Fairthorne, "that the 
 task of creation may have been relegated to inferior 
 creative individualities. If each had a world so as- 
 signed, star travel would be interesting." Fair- 
 thorne 's deep-set blue eyes the blue eyes which the 
 years leave always young twinkled with mirth. Mr. 
 Knellwood sat up, and, as usual, accepted battle, 
 never suspecting the enjoyment which the old gen- 
 tleman got out of the earnestness with which the 
 clergyman considered his gay inventions. 
 
 "Mr. Fairthorne," he returned, "what you say is 
 interesting. I will think it over. As the angels, 
 we are told, are God's ministers, he may have chosen 
 to use them thus." 
 
 ' ' Oh, Mr. Knellwood ! ' ' said Miss Mary, much 
 
 5
 
 66 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 amused, "you are getting into trouble. Never begin 
 by admitting my uncle's premises." 
 
 "Thank you, Miss Mary; but my good friend can- 
 not tempt me to-day. His check is a solid argument 
 against the completeness of this earth's imperfec- 
 tion. There is one good man in it." It was pleas- 
 antly said, with the courtesy which made Knellwood 
 a likable man, despite his obvious limitations. Mary 
 clapped her hands joyously. 
 
 "A hit! A very palpable hit!" 
 
 "And yet," said Cyril, "you will let me say, too, 
 Mr. Fairthorne, that however curious such varieties 
 of speculation may be, I do not think they ought to 
 be cast in the way of the young." 
 
 "By George! Knellwood, that is fine. Mary riots 
 in skeptic delights." 
 
 " I do not, sir. Do not trust him. ' ' 
 
 "And as to Katherine, she is as supremely inca- 
 pable of thought as Felisa, my cat." 
 
 "I am glad," said the clergyman, "to think you 
 do not know as I do my good little parishioner. But 
 my time is up. I had another small errand ; I have 
 had letters from a Mrs. Hunter, who speaks of know- 
 ing Miss Morrow and mentions you as a correspon- 
 dent." 
 
 "Well, we have exchanged letters. She is, I take 
 it, a remarkable woman. What of her?" 
 
 "She is coming here, and wants to assist in my 
 parish work. My experience in the past makes me 
 careful. ' ' 
 
 "I recommend Mrs. Hunter," said Fairthorne, 
 lightly; "she is handsome and clever. What more
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 67 
 
 can the church ask? Katherine, as you must know, 
 is an unfailing judge of human character. I am 
 told that she adores her. ' ' 
 
 Mr. Knellwood smiled. He knew that he was not 
 being seriously considered ; nevertheless, he said as 
 he rose: "Many thanks, Mr. Fairthorne; I must wait 
 to see her, I suppose. Pardon my troubling you, 
 and again, thank you." Miss Fairthorne went 
 down-stairs with Mr. Knellwood, saying : 
 
 "You must not take my uncle too literally. He 
 knows nothing of Mrs. Hunter." 
 
 "Miss Morrow tells me she is a woman of serious 
 views. That ought to suffice ; but I am perhaps over- 
 cautious. ' ' 
 
 When Mary returned to the library she found her 
 uncle asleep in his chair. This had been common of 
 late. He disliked to be reminded of it and accord- 
 ingly Mary sat down noiselessly to make a copy, in 
 her clear hand, of letters in Lord Burleigh's crabbed 
 script recently added to her uncle's collection. As 
 he would buy letters only, she often found them 
 such as to excite her interest. Presently John Fair- 
 thorne sat up. 
 
 "That theological idiot has gone?" he asked. 
 
 "Mr. Knellwood has gone, delighted with your 
 generosity. ' ' 
 
 ' ' What ? what ? Generosity ! " He had forgotten. 
 Mary was too kindly to insist on this lapse of mem- 
 ory. She said, however: 
 
 "Uncle John, you should not have left him with 
 the belief that you can indorse this Mrs. Hunter.
 
 68 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Kitty's enthusiasms are not always wisely placed. 
 I hope you will not ' ' 
 
 "Will not what? Confound it, Mary, I shall do 
 as I please." He looked flushed and angry. "Damn 
 Mrs. Hunter ! Every one tries to manage me. Kath- 
 erine is the only comfort I have." 
 
 Mary was in no wise disturbed by these sudden 
 fits of unreason. 
 
 "The letters are copied, sir, I think, clearly." 
 She set the portfolio on his desk, and left the room. 
 
 "I had better not have tried to counsel Uncle 
 John, ' ' she said to herself ; but for Mary duties were 
 very insistent creditors.
 
 VIII 
 
 was the end of November before Mrs. 
 Lucretia Hunter was able to go to Phila- 
 delphia. When at last the time of her 
 quarterly paid income arrived she no 
 longer delayed. Mr. Knellwood, with 
 whom she had exchanged several letters, had at her 
 desire mentioned a reputable boarding-house, and 
 Miss Morrow had secured for her the desired room. 
 Meanwhile, Fate had dealt harshly with this gal- 
 lant free-lance. The brother suddenly appeared. 
 He was now out of employment for the third time. 
 After his early boyhood he had been sustained at 
 school and then at a Western college for two years, 
 by work and self-sacrifice on the part of his sis- 
 ter. He was always just going to succeed, was capa- 
 ble of brief effort in any novel pursuit, and then 
 was as sure to give up or be given up. School, 
 college, an art school, law studies, a business college, 
 and last a clerkship, all in turn ended in some form 
 of failure. He was the constant burden she carried, 
 and she carried it bravely, loving him, proud of his 
 singular beauty, lavish to him alone, hopeful always, 
 with a strange satisfaction in self-immolation, due 
 perhaps in part to the fact that the years between
 
 70 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 them gave her sisterly relation the effect of mother- 
 hood. It is doubtful if perfect physical beauty is 
 ever unselfish. This man, though small and slight, 
 / was more beautiful than a man should be. He knew 
 V it, and the sister counted on it as a part of her 
 capital. 
 
 This time he had come upon her again a little too 
 early for her plans, having lost his clerkship by rea- 
 son of ignorance and unpunctuality. He told her 
 that he had left because he was tired of it. She 
 was fully aware that he was lying, but that inves- 
 tigation was useless waste of time. After thinking 
 it all over she said that she would write for him to 
 the house where a room had been taken for her. 
 She might perhaps go elsewhere. She hoped he 
 would keep quiet and behave himself. He spoke of 
 his desire to pay certain debts, but when she learned 
 that they were owing in Boston she smiled at the 
 simple artifice, said they must wait, and kissed him, 
 adding : 
 
 "I should like, Lionel, to ask you to be good; fail- 
 ing that, may I ask you to be prudent? I must feel 
 at ease ; and remember, as I told you, we are still the 
 orphan children of an English clergyman Halifax, 
 please don't forget. I was a teacher, which is true. 
 I have always taken care of you. We are Craigs, 
 and I am the widow of the principal of the St. Jude 
 Academy near Halifax. You have been unable to 
 bear the harsh climate of Canada. As concerns my 
 life, bury it and be careful. This is our last chance. 
 It may prove a good one, and it is all very simple; 
 only I am a little afraid of you."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 71 
 
 He did not see why, but, promising all things, he 
 went away to Philadelphia by the noon train. 
 
 This man he was now twenty-five, but looked 
 quite boylike was of a nature the reverse of com- 
 plex; a mild animal with male instincts, with crude 
 appetites, lazy in mind and body a man without 
 thought of to-morrow, and for whom yesterdays were 
 valueless. He was attached to his sister by habit 
 and necessity. He had come by degrees to under- 
 stand her and her ways, and indeed knew more of 
 them than she liked. He laughed as he left her. 
 
 ' ' I wonder what she is up to now, ' ' he said. 
 " No one who writes or has written of men has ever 
 completely unraveled to perfect clearness the tangle 
 of one human life. Even the lesser task of describ- 
 ing the face and form so as to identify an indi- 
 vidual is no easy task. As a rule, the greater mas- 
 ters have left these personal details to the hearer's 
 imaginative helping. For some people there was 
 repulse and not invitation in the curiously faultless 
 features of Lionel Craig. It was a face on which 
 time did not readily write its records, good or bad, 
 and which it had so far left uncharactered. 
 
 John Fairthorne once said to Mary that the world 
 was a fleeting show and all of us merely its more 
 or less well-trained animals. When she replied, 
 being then of the age of sixteen, that she was not 
 an animal, he advised her to adjourn opinion until 
 she was a mother, which sent her away reflective. 
 
 Lionel Craig was certainly an animal, but nearly 
 incapable of assimilative use of training, moral or 
 mental. He had the cunning of his kind.
 
 IX 
 
 |P we be the sport of chance-bred circum- 
 stance, it is no more strange than any 
 uninfluential fact that beside Lionel 
 Craig there were on the noon train two 
 persons who would in time gravely af- 
 fect each other's fates. 
 
 When Sydney Archer, returning from a consulta- 
 tion in New Jersey, caught the express at Elizabeth, 
 he found no seat except in a rather crowded smok- 
 ing-car. His custom was to smoke only after the 
 day's work was over, but now, accepting the joy of 
 breaking a dutiful habit, he found, as the tempted 
 do, an ally in a cigar forgotten in his waistcoat 
 pocket. He bent over the seat in front of him and 
 asked a light. A sun-darkened young man replied : 
 ' ' I have no match. Won 't my pipe do ? " Archer 
 said: 
 
 "Yes, but it is quite a bit of art to get a light 
 from a pipe." The owner of the pipe said he 
 had n't noticed that, and it could n't hurt the pipe. 
 Said Archer, smiling: 
 
 "But it can put it out, and the man, too." The 
 young fellow did not rise to this small joke, and 
 made no reply, which pricked Archer into continu- 
 ing an aborted talk. Leaning over the half-occupied 
 72
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 73 
 
 seat, he got a side look at an ugly, rugged, resolute 
 face. 
 
 "Pardon me," he said, with the soft tongue and 
 courteous ways of his Southern breed; "I see that 
 I have actually put out your pipe I thought I 
 should. You must pardon me." 
 
 "Well, I am not any put out." He stated it as a 
 fact, not in any relation to Archer's mild jest. "I 
 have smoked all I want." Then he looked out of 
 the window at the cheerful landscape of New Jersey. 
 Archer tried again: 
 
 "Queer phrase, that of a man being put out." 
 
 "I don't know. Is it?" 
 
 Archer gave up. The man must be stupid. He 
 was not, though he was a slow thinker, and socially 
 to be defined as a strong, untrained creature, crude, 
 capable, observant a man who had led a rather 
 lonely life. After a full half-minute of silence he 
 turned and showing in full the big-featured face and 
 somewhat tender eyes, said slowly: 
 
 "To say you are put out can't mean that you are 
 pushed out of temper, as if a fellow put you out of a 
 quiet place you were in." 
 
 Archer sat up, attentive. He was a student of his 
 kind. 
 
 "Why not?" he asked. 
 
 "Because no man can shove me out of my temper 
 if I want to stay there." 
 
 Archer, delighted, was about to take the vacant 
 seat beside his comrade of the minute, when he was 
 anticipated by an over-dressed young man who said 
 to the sun-burned one, "Sorry to trouble you," and
 
 74 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 sat down beside him. The other made room, but did 
 not speak. Presently, however, he became interested 
 in his neighbor, who, to make things easier to state, 
 we may say was Lionel Craig. The new-comer un- 
 locked a large bag which he had set at his feet. It 
 was a rather luxuriously furnished dressing-case, and 
 at once excited the curiosity of the other young man. 
 Craig turned over its untidy contents, opened a sil- 
 ver-topped cologne bottle, put a little on his handker- 
 chief, selected a large cigar from a foolishly heavy 
 silver case, and asked his neighbor for a match. 
 Finding that he had none, Craig tumbled over the 
 gloves and brushes and coming upon a little gold 
 match-safe, shut up his bag and smoked in silence, 
 while he looked over the society news and comments 
 of the "Daily Gossip." At last, that edifying 
 amusement failing, be turned toward the sun-burned 
 man. Archer saw the two contrasted side faces, the 
 large, well-clad head, the big features, with hardly 
 enough of facial space, and beside him the richly 
 colored, clean-shaven delicacy of the new-comer, with 
 a thinner crop of black hair. It was easy to hear 
 their talk. 
 
 "Not a strong face," thought the doctor. "I 
 would bet on the brown paws and dirty nails against 
 the gloves." They were too fine for travel and mere 
 protective use. 
 
 The sun-burned man seemed to talk easily enough 
 to Craig. At last he said : 
 
 "Do you know Philadelphia well enough to tell 
 me where I could get cheap board?" 
 
 "No, I am a stranger. I have the address of a
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 75 
 
 house where I have taken rooms. I prefer a hotel, 
 but this is well, a rather unusual kind of boarding- 
 house. You see, in this city ladies who have lost 
 means sometimes resort to this way of earning a 
 living. But it is not at all cheap." 
 
 "Then it won't suit me." 
 
 "You might try," said Craig, "the Misses Mark- 
 ham, 290 Pine Street. Here is their card; queer 
 for boarding-house keepers to have visiting-cards." 
 
 "Why not?" said the other. "I never had one 
 myself, but there is no law against it, I suppose. ' ' 
 
 "No, of course not." By and by the other asked 
 casually : 
 
 "Are you traveling?" Most of the over-dressed 
 men he had met in smoking-cars had been drummers. 
 Mr. Craig said shortly, yes, he was traveling, of 
 course. 
 
 ' ' In what line ? ' ' asked the other. 
 
 "Oh, damn it! I 'm not in trade." 
 
 "I guessed you were." Then it seemed to him 
 natural that, having asked, he should give. He 
 added: 
 
 "My name 's Martin Blount. I am going to study 
 medicine at the university. ' ' 
 
 Mr. Craig said: 
 
 "It must be rather an unpleasant business," and 
 with no more words, having smoked his cigar, he 
 picked up his bag and went back to the car he had 
 left. Archer took his vacant seat, saying: 
 
 "You puzzled me, Mr. Blount. I am Dr. Sydney 
 Archer. ' ' A large smile occupied the young fellow 's 
 face.
 
 76 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Why, now, I 'm right pleased, sir, to see you," 
 and he wrung the offered hand with too efficient cor- 
 diality. " I took your advice. " 
 
 ' ' Well, and pray what was it ? I forget. ' ' 
 
 "I guess you might forget a good lot of kindness, 
 and remember enough for nest-eggs." Archer, 
 amused, repeated his query: 
 
 "But, really, what was it?" 
 
 "Well, sir, don't you remember? I came to see 
 you last spring. I wanted a scholarship in the uni- 
 versity, and you said that required one foreign lan- 
 guage besides the other qualifications. So I learned 
 German this summer I had some Latin. I came on 
 early in September and got in number two." 
 
 "But you are late at the work; the session begins 
 in October." 
 
 "That 's so. I was keeping hotel books at Old- 
 field, and my time was n't out till November. I 
 shall make it up." 
 
 "Where do you mean to live in the city?" 
 
 "I guess I can get a garret somewhere." 
 
 "I think that if you will go and see the Misses 
 Markham and give them my card they will contrive 
 to make a place for you at least for the time needed 
 to look about you. I will see them later." 
 
 "Why, that is the same house that fellow that 
 fellow with the bag was going to." Archer saw the 
 obvious, unuttered difficulty. 
 
 "Take what they offer. I shall see them in a day 
 or two. They are good women, and, I chance to 
 know, have at present a half-empty house. Here is 
 my card." He wrote a few lines upon it. "It was
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 77 
 
 Dr. Bergwynn sent you to me, I remember now. 
 He said you were the son of an Andover professor, 
 an orphan." 
 
 "Yes, sir; I never saw my father or mother." 
 
 "And how is it as to money? With the help of 
 the scholarship can you manage?" The brown, 
 good-humored face set hard. 
 
 "I Ve got to manage. ' ' Archer was too tactfully 
 wise to say more. 
 
 "Come and see me. Ah, here we are," he said, as 
 they ran into the station. "Be sure to go to Miss 
 Markham 's. ' ' 
 
 In the mid-afternoon Mr. Lionel Craig was left in 
 the front parlor of a large, old-fashioned Georgian 
 house on Pine Street. He was somewhat surprised, 
 and for a little while thought he had mistaken the 
 number. It was a paneled room, painted white. 
 There were portraits by the elder Peale, Copley, and 
 two by Jarvis, set against wall-paper which was laid 
 on in squares, each a gay-tinted fox-hunt. The 
 wooden mantel held four tall Wedgwood vases. A 
 corner cupboard was filled with Dresden cups, with 
 a background of buff-and-gold Nankin plates, and 
 on top stood a huge china punch-bowl, with the name 
 ' ' Robt. Markham, 1783, ' ' and a coat of arms. Craig 
 sat down in one of the dignified arm-chairs of old 
 mahogany, and began to look about him at the rather 
 grim gentlefolks who would have seemed to any one 
 else to suit so well the room and its furniture. He 
 had an uneasy sense of being in the wrong place. 
 
 He meant to be particular about his room. That 
 was desirable, in order to make people feel at once
 
 78 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 the position and wants of a gentleman. Of course, 
 there must be a bath-room near it, and sun was de- 
 sirable. He would ask about that. He had again 
 a slight shock of surprise as he rose on the entrance 
 of two ladies. 
 
 The elder woman wore over her gray hair a lace 
 cap. A closer observer than Craig would have seen 
 that her delicate features bore the look of fatigue 
 and care. The sister was slighter. She was pos- 
 sibly near to thirty, and might once have been a very 
 pretty girl. Trouble, work, and anxiety had not 
 spared her, but the somewhat critical look she turned 
 on Craig, who had brought in with him his precious 
 bag, was not devoid of either intelligence or a sub- 
 dued expression of amusement. Except for the 
 elder sister's cap, they were dressed precisely alike 
 in some soft, gray, silken stuff. The younger woman 
 had opened the door and stepped back to let her 
 sister enter the room. 
 
 "I am Mr. Craig/' said Lionel. Miss Markham 
 put up a pair of gold eye-glasses, as she returned : 
 
 ' ' Quite so. We expected you. Mrs. Hunter wrote 
 to us, and as Miss Morrow is her friend we consented 
 to receive you." 
 
 "Yes," said the younger lady, "we consented." 
 
 "Pardon me, I should have said I am Miss Mark- 
 ham," said the elder woman; "my sister, Miss Clem- 
 entina you will kindly show Mr. Craig his room. 
 We are sure you will be comfortable. Miss Clemen- 
 tina will tell you our meal hours. You will excuse 
 us if we say, as you are young and we rarely have 
 young people with us, that we like them to be punc-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 79 
 
 tual. In fact, and you will pardon me, we rather 
 insist on it." 
 
 "Yes, certainly," said Mr. Craig, somewhat em- 
 barrassed. 
 
 "And of course, sister," said Miss Clementina, 
 "Mr. Craig will understand that we are old-fash- 
 ioned folks and particular " 
 
 "We hope," said Miss Markham, "that you do not 
 use tobacco of course, I mean smoke, Clementina." 
 
 "Yes, we mean smoke," said that lady; "or, at 
 least not in our house. ' ' 
 
 Craig said : 
 
 ' ' Oh, no ! " feeling that he was by no means dic- 
 tating terms. Then, rallying his forces, he thought 
 it desirable to put these boarding-house women in 
 their proper places. He said: 
 
 ' ' I will look at your rooms before I decide, and of 
 course there must be a bath-room on the same floor." 
 
 "Mr. Wilson has our only bath-room," said Miss 
 Markham; "you will of course have a bath-tub in 
 your room. We have given you a room because Mrs. 
 Hunter is commended to us by Miss Morrow. There 
 is no choice of rooms, as we have but one for you 
 and one for Mrs. Hunter." 
 
 Mr. Craig, somewhat disconcerted, said: 
 
 "Oh, I suppose it will be all right." 
 
 "May I ask you to follow me?" said Miss Clemen- 
 tina. 
 
 The exquisite neatness of the third-story back 
 room, into which he was shown, pleased his taste, and 
 he refrained from further critical inquiry. 
 
 "I think I shall be quite satisfied, Miss Markham."
 
 80 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Miss Clementina," she corrected, pleasantly 
 smiling. 
 
 "What time do you have supper?" 
 
 "We dine at half after six. Our friend Mr. Wil- 
 son, on the second floor, dines at his club. You will 
 have time to change your clothes before dinner, but 
 if your trunk does not arrive we shall not mind it 
 for to-day." 
 
 "Good heavens!" exclaimed Craig. 
 
 "I beg pardon," said Clementina, thinking what 
 a pretty, self-important little man he was. "You 
 will find the clock on the stair correct. My sister 
 is particular as to the hours of meals. I will have 
 your trunk sent up." 
 
 When Miss Clementina found Miss Markham in 
 the parlor, that lady said : 
 
 "Well, dear, will he suit us?" 
 
 "I fear not. An underbred young man and pre- 
 tentious," returned the sister. 
 
 "I was not favorably impressed," said Miss Leti- 
 tia. "I do not like these girl-faced men. He will 
 have to be kept in his place, Clementina." 
 
 "Yes, we must keep him in his place, Letitia. It 
 is unfortunate. Perhaps we may have to send him 
 away." 
 
 "We must hope, Clementina, that Mrs. Hunter 
 may be nicer. Plain people are well enough, but 
 common people cannot be endured. ' ' 
 
 "Do you suppose Katherine Morrow knows this 
 young man?" 
 
 "Perhaps not. We may have been hasty, Clemen-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 81 
 
 As she spoke, Martin Blount entered. He had 
 walked across the great city, carrying his not too 
 heavy portmanteau. He had paused to look through 
 the iron gate of St. Peter's at the crumbling tomb- 
 stones. He had seen the tall form of Mary Fair- 
 thorne on a big thoroughbred and wondered why 
 she was followed by a groom. He had used his eyes 
 well. That he was dusty and begrimed with travel 
 did not trouble him, as it had done Lionel Craig. 
 
 "I am Martin Blount," he said, "and here is a 
 card, ma'am, from Dr. Archer. I hope," and he 
 looked with wistful doubt about the parlor, "I do 
 hope you can take me in." 
 
 "Take him in!" murmured Miss Letitia, as she 
 read the card. "I do suppose we must manage." 
 She was somewhat annoyed. Dr. Archer had been a 
 faithful, helpful friend, but the last-comer had tried 
 the little gentlewoman shrewdly. She said : 
 
 "Sit down, while I talk to my sister. You will 
 excuse us " 
 
 "Why, of course ; I am not in any hurry." 
 
 The two ladies went out. Then he began to use 
 his eager eyes. When they returned he was looking 
 at a portrait over the mantel. For the minute this 
 alone interested him. He did not wait to hear their 
 conclusion, but said : 
 
 "Now, that 's a right strong face." He could 
 have said nothing better. Miss Markham returned : 
 
 "Yes, that is Major-General Markham, and this is 
 his grandson, who was killed in the action between 
 the Constitution and the Java." 
 
 "And that?" said Mr. Blount, with increasing in-
 
 82 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 terest, pointing out a miniature which hung below 
 the general. 
 
 "That is our brother. He fell at Fredericks- 
 burg." 
 
 "At Fredericksburg. He was our only brother," 
 echoed the sister. 
 
 "Let us talk of what we can do for you," said 
 Miss Markham. 
 
 "I think I just ought to say right at once I can't 
 afford to have a room in a house like yours. I can 
 afford to pay five dollars a week. It 's too like a 
 home, miss I can't afford a home. I just want a 
 room and breakfast. I guess I '11 have to eat dinner 
 somewhere near the college." 
 
 "Miss Clementina and I have consulted, and we 
 know that Dr. Archer meant us to take you, or at 
 least for a time. We can give you breakfast and an 
 attic. We are sorry it must be only an attic. Dr. 
 Archer says you will be satisfied with that." 
 
 "And a stove," said Clementina. 
 
 "And a stove," repeated Miss Markham, "and 
 breakfast. You will take your other meals outside, 
 you say. We think you said so ? " 
 
 "Yes, the college is far from here." He found in 
 that an excuse. 
 
 "Then Miss Clementina will show you your 
 room." He was overjoyed, gratefully satisfied with 
 the old house and the two women. 
 
 "Thank you," he said, and followed the neat 
 little lady. 
 
 When again Clementina came back she said : 
 
 "It is getting to be dreadfully like keeping a
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 83 
 
 boarding-house. We have been making believe 
 to-" 
 
 "And we will still make believe, till we, too, 
 change our lodgings, dear, for a better. The young 
 man is plain, but not common." 
 
 "He is very uncommon, sister. Is it too late for 
 service ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 For the next few days Mr. Craig idled about the 
 city, waiting. Martin Blount threw himself eagerly 
 into the early studies of his profession. He used his 
 days, and sat up so late that Miss Clementina, trou- 
 bled about candles, put a lamp in his room. 
 
 Clementina had long been accustomed to accept 
 the position of a younger sister, and to yield to the 
 will and ways of Letitia, who was always too weary 
 to talk, and read little except her Bible. She was 
 'not strong, and sometimes submitted to having her 
 breakfast sent up to her little room in the "back 
 building, ' ' as Philadelphians call it. 
 
 Craig ate fast, and went out as soon as he could 
 to smoke. He rarely returned until after dinner. 
 Martin Blount was apt to linger over his break- 
 fast. With his shrewd, observant ways and varied 
 interests, he pleased Clementina, who loved books and 
 good talk, and had small leisure for visits. He soon 
 told her his story, and the kindly heart of the woman 
 began to take pleasure in helping the courageous 
 young fellow. She went over his clothes, and 
 mended shirts and darned socks or sewed on buttons. 
 At last she bought him handkerchiefs. He told 
 black Judith that there was some mistake, and
 
 84 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 wished to pay her for the astonishing repair of a 
 collar. The old negress laughed and said no one 
 could mend like Miss Clementina. "But he was n't 
 to know about the handkerchiefs, not on no ac- 
 count." The thoughtful kindness touched him as 
 few things had done. 
 
 His life had been hard and had hardened the man 
 a little. Now, having fallen among friends he found 
 it strange. 
 
 The winter began. Dr. Archer saw him twice, 
 but was too busy to think much of one of many 
 struggling students. 
 
 A week after Lionel Craig arrived, his sister wrote 
 to Miss Markham that she preferred to go to a hotel, 
 and should not need the room reserved for her. Her 
 offer to pay was declined. Her brother remained 
 with the two ladies, and, now that his sister was 
 near, was kept in reasonable order by the promise of 
 better things and by contributions of money she 
 could ill spare.
 
 'BE you not late, Harry?" said Mrs. 
 Swanwick to her husband. 
 
 "Yes," he said, looking up from his 
 paper and then at his watch, "but I 
 have had a note from Mr. Grace. He 
 wants to see me here before I go to the office." 
 
 "I, too, have an appointment," she cried, gaily. 
 ' ' Mr. Masters wishes to consult me. ' ' 
 
 "Indeed, I shall be jealous. Might I ask " 
 
 "No, you may not. I never reveal professional 
 secrets. By the way, Harry, are you altogether 
 satisfied about the Republic Trust? You talked of 
 it last month." 
 
 "I did. I think I said, also, that by accident I 
 found out that Mr. Underwood had been twice con- 
 sulted by Thurston." 
 
 "Without your knowledge?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Is n't that unusual?" 
 
 "Yes. It is sometimes done, but not secretly. I 
 should be consulted first. ' ' 
 
 "Is he a reputable lawyer?" 
 
 "Well, yes, of late years. Not altogether very 
 able sharp, I should say." 
 
 "Then, as you observed, Harry, there must be 
 
 85
 
 86 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 something wrong, very wrong more than those 
 bonds. You said they were improving. Uncle John 
 must hold a good deal of the Republic stock. If 
 they are doing things their counsel is not to know, 
 I " and she paused. 
 
 ' ' Quite true, dear. It does look suspicious. What 
 made you talk of it?" 
 
 "Yes. What was it? Oh, yes, Dr. Archer said 
 something about it. Perhaps, as uncle is wrapped 
 up in himself and his autographs, you might, as you 
 said, look into the matter before you speak to him. 
 Why not ask Mr. Grace?" 
 
 "He is a director. It would never do." 
 
 ' ' Oh, indeed ! ' ' She knew it very well, and knew 
 also that her husband was amply able to learn all 
 that was needed and only required to be made a 
 little anxious. 
 
 "Don't resign in a pet, Harry; not yet, anyhow. 
 They cannot make you aid any wrong, and no matter 
 what happens you are above reproach. Wait at 
 least until there is something more definite. Be- 
 sides, being counsel enables you to ask questions and 
 learn what may be of value to uncle." 
 
 "How did you know, Madge, that I thought of 
 resigning ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Oh, you innocent dear ! ' ' she cried. ' ' How long 
 have we been married? There, go; I hear the bell. 
 If Tom Masters comes, send him up to me, and, 
 Harry, do let me see the paper book in the Bridge 
 case. Ah!" she sighed as he went down-stairs, "I 
 should like to argue that case." Then she said to 
 herself, "I have a half-hour," and whistled gaily, at
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 87 
 
 which signal Jack and the "Kid," as he called her, 
 made tumultuous descent from the nursery into her 
 arms and were chased into the library, where the 
 three rolled about in undignified joy until at last the 
 little lady, gay, glad, and very red, cried as Masters 
 came in : 
 
 "Shoo! Shoo! Eun, off with you! Ah! I 
 would rather be a mother, Tom, than chief-justice. 
 Pardon me, I have been the prey of those children. 
 I am not fit to be seen. Sit down. Are the ducks 
 in yet at Carroll's Island?" 
 
 "Yes, I am off to-morrow. You shall have your 
 share and lend me Harry next week." 
 
 ' ' Not I ; he must work for his living. How are the 
 old aunts, the ladies you dare to call the white mice ? ' ' 
 
 "Well, are n't they white mice? That house al- 
 ways seems to me like a mild little peep-show. Aunt 
 Letitia is like a gentle ancestral breeze out of the 
 country of long ago, and Aunt Clementina, so dainty, 
 and so gentle " 
 
 "And sometimes so pretty, in spite of her absurd 
 notion of dressing to look old. I wonder if Letitia 
 does really like that?" 
 
 "Possibly. Now and then she is severe with our 
 young and inexperienced Clementina. You should 
 hear it." 
 
 "They must have a rather hard struggle at times." 
 
 "Yes, I know, Margaret, but you can't help them. 
 I could manage Clementina, but Aunt Letitia 
 never! The last time I ventured Aunt Letitia re- 
 turned my check in a formal note, and actually in 
 the third person."
 
 88 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Not really?" 
 
 "Yes, and they loathe it all, and make believe, like 
 Miss What 's-her-name in Dickens, and won't take a 
 cent. Now they have a fellow there like a small, 
 I painted Apollo, and another like a rather nice kind 
 of Caliban. Aunt Clementina is in love with him. 
 It is her first. Once a man got as far as I do not 
 know how far, but I was told that Miss Markham 
 ordered him out of the house. They are more celi- 
 batic than old Knellwood. By the way, Margaret, 
 I think the reverend bachelor is fairly on the way to 
 trouble " 
 
 "What! Cyril Knellwood ! I have long suspected 
 it ; but how can she ? Oh, Kitty ! ' ' 
 
 "The meshes of that net are small. No fish es- 
 cape." He spoke bitterly for him, but he was now 
 talking to his nearest friend as he talked to no 
 other. Usually he took his defeats sweetly, but Kitty 
 had gone far and he was hurt; as he said to him- 
 self, ' ' pretty badly net-marked, like an old salmon. ' ' 
 
 He was a man few understood. Mary Fairthorne 
 said of him that he took in more and gave out less 
 than any one she knew. Men who had been with 
 him in the Wilderness fighting spoke of him with 
 pleased remembrance. He read immensely, and few 
 suspected it ; he gave, and none knew ; and used to be 
 called the club grandfather, because to him the 
 young fellows always came for advice or aid. In 
 fact, he was genially constructed, had clear notions 
 as to duties and honor, and after the war was left 
 stranded without distinct ambitions except to be a 
 first-rate shot. Why no woman had ever said yes
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 89 
 
 to this gentleman Margaret Swanwick did not know. 
 In her case, Harry had blocked the way. Mary said 
 it was his excessive reverence for women. Margaret 
 laughed, and admitted that there was something in 
 that, but that it did seem to her a malady easily 
 cured. 
 
 When Tom Masters spoke with decent reserve of 
 the sad ways of the ever-impenitent Kitty, Mar- 
 garet touched his arm kindly : 
 
 "We are none of us good enough for you, Tom. 
 Certainly not Katherine Morrow." 
 
 "Please don't," he said. 
 
 "Yes, but I must. You shall never marry. 
 \/ Are n't you my Jack's godfather, and everybody's 
 uncle?" 
 
 Margaret Fairthorne had once been on the boun- 
 dary of a love affair with Mr. Masters. That was 
 long ago. She had yet a real if faintly felt dislike 
 to his marrying, although had he declared him- 
 \/ self engaged she would have joyfully welcomed the 
 news. 
 
 "Well, I want your help, Madge," he said; and 
 when she replied, confidently : 
 
 "Of course, Tom," he added that it was n't very 
 easy. 
 
 "The fact is, Margaret, Roger Grace is afflicted 
 with social ambition. You do not know him of 
 course not. ' ' 
 
 "But I do," she said; "I went to his banking- 
 office yesterday to ask if he would help our farm- 
 home reformatory. He was very nice about it, and 
 said he would think it over."
 
 90 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Oh, is that so? He is talking to Harry now, 
 down-stairs, about some law question." 
 
 "And what," said Margaret, "can I do for this 
 man of millions, poor little me?" 
 
 "What he wants is to be put on the Assembly list. 
 Why, heaven knows. He is a bachelor of forty or 
 thereabouts. He is a kindly, generous, plain man, 
 without pretence. Where he came from he will tell 
 you or any one frankly, but he does not boast about 
 his rise from farmer folk in the Alleghanies. I ad- 
 vised him to ask Harry Swanwick. He said no, that 
 Mr. Swanwick was his counsel, and might feel 
 obliged to say he would do it. Well, anyhow, Madge, 
 he said that he saw no objection to my speaking to 
 you I said I would. But why do our newly rich 
 folk want this kind of thing?" 
 
 "They ought to want it, Tom. I am glad they do. 
 Because we have always had it, it seems of no mo- 
 ment. There is no reason why Mr. Grace should 
 not have the subscription book sent to him. I am 
 one of the patronesses this year, and Harry has been 
 a manager. He hated it, and I am sure to have so 
 often to say no, without giving a reason, must make 
 needless enmities. I will speak to Harry. No, if I 
 do and he gives I mean if Mr. Grace gives me what 
 I asked, will it not seem as if " 
 
 "Yes, perhaps. Don't do it, Madge; I will say a 
 word to some of the other managers. He will not get 
 in this year, but millions win at last, and this man is 
 quite unobjectionable. Let us leave it. How is 
 Jack ? Ah, here is Harry ' * 
 
 "Mr. Grace, Madge. I suppose it is about that 
 farm school. Take care, Grace, she is greedy."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 91 
 
 "Yes, it is that. I want to know a little more 
 about it, ' ' said the banker. Roger Grace was a com- 
 pactly built man in the early forties ; a strong, clean- 
 shaven face carried the jaw and chin of power, with 
 \/^some unanalyzable look of sadness in the eyes. He 
 had the money-making talent, and enjoyed its use. 
 Of late he had found out that the pleasure of giving 
 was worth the attentive care he soon spent upon it. 
 A stainless commercial character had led to friend- 
 ships which in turn taught a receptive nature the 
 taste for things undreamed of in the busy years of 
 laborious effort. With ample leisure, he began to 
 desire, he hardly asked himself why, the life of a 
 class into touch of which he had come by degrees. 
 
 Mrs. Swanwick fell at once into easy talk with the 
 banker after Masters and her husband went away. 
 He asked many questions, and she soon knew that 
 the whole matter of the discipline, education, and 
 care of the morally imperfect was familiar to him. 
 As he rose, he said: 
 
 "But there must be also flower culture. I think 
 that of use of real use. When I am tired or trou- 
 bled" Mrs. Swanwick looked up "I go out to my 
 flower-farm, and if that does not help me I am 
 past remedy." He was curiously near to a desire 
 to make the only confession of his guarded life. She 
 was in fact one of the women to whom the heavily 
 burdened and those weary of struggle turn, assured 
 of aid and comprehension. 
 
 This woman, with her well-bred kindliness and 
 her intelligent compassion, pleased and attracted a 
 man who was slowly finding new pleasures of heart 
 and mind, and discovering in his own nature unused
 
 92 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 resources of happiness. He looked up at the land- 
 scape by Inness, and spoke of its having sentiment. 
 Then he laid an envelope on the table, and said : 
 
 "I should like to come and see you again, and to 
 visit the school. I have a high regard for your hus- 
 band, Mrs. Swanwick. I suppose you do know what 
 a good fellow he is?" Margaret laughed, pleased 
 at the blunt praise. 
 
 "Yes, I know," she said, "but I like others to 
 know and to say so. ' ' 
 
 "By the by," he said, laying a large hand on the 
 envelope, "I wrote a check at once after you left. I 
 shall send you another to-morrow. That will be for 
 the flowers. I want also to say, Mrs. Swanwick, that 
 I asked Mr. Masters to speak to you about the Assem- 
 bly. Curious old thing that ever since 1740, I hear. 
 That interests one in our land of uneasy change. 
 Mr. Masters says it is difficult. I hope you won't 
 bother about it. I shall get there. I always get 
 what I want. I would n't like you to think that I 
 am buying my way. I should dislike any one to 
 say that." 
 
 "Please don't," said Margaret, "no one no one 
 could think that. May I use your name as the 
 giver ? ' ' 
 
 He said yes, if it would be serviceable. After this 
 she told him that late in the afternoons she was likely 
 to be at home, and would be glad to see him. When 
 he had gone she eagerly opened the envelope, and 
 found in it a check for five thousand dollars. 
 
 The Assembly business was, of course, discussed, 
 and as usual the new candidate was laid aside for
 
 CIKCUMSTANCE 93 
 
 the year. Almack's had never been more uncertain, 
 nor at times more unreasonably difficult. 
 
 Mr. Grace was shrewdly observant, and was getting 
 to understand this small and exacting social life, 
 which with reluctance admitted the claims of mere 
 money. He reflected a little on his way to his office. 
 He felt that even the appearance of being willing to 
 buy his way into the life he desired to enter was not 
 to his taste. Accordingly, when he wrote to Mrs. 
 Swanwick, inclosing a second check, he said that, on 
 the whole, he preferred not to have his name asso- 
 ciated with his gift to the farm home. Mrs. Swan- 
 wick, however, had already mentioned it to Mary, 
 and now asked her why he had so changed his mind 
 about the use of his name? To this Mary replied 
 that he must be a nice man and when Madge still 
 wondered, declared that if her elder sister only pos- 
 sessed as much imagination as intellect this would 
 not seem a hard riddle. 
 
 "Put yourself in his place, dear," she added, "and 
 you will know. I think I should like to see the 
 man. ' ' 
 
 Madge said neither she nor any one could put 
 ^themselves in any other person's place.
 
 XI 
 
 |OR a brief time Mr. Lionel Craig was 
 capable of self-restraint, and as the 
 funds supplied by his sister barely suf- 
 ficed for his board he had been rea- 
 sonably punctual and decently be- 
 haved. Moreover, he had acquired a certain respect 
 for the ladies in whose card-basket he recognized the 
 names of people he would have been most glad to 
 visit. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mrs. Hunter was biding her time in 
 New York, and frequenting libraries where she could 
 learn all about these people with historic stories and, 
 what she valued more, long purses. Kitty's letters 
 had begun to be brief, and to betray less eagerness. 
 It was time to exert a nearer influence and to be 
 within reach of her brother, who was getting, as he 
 reported, anxious to obtain employment. Mrs. Hun- 
 ter knew well what that meant. 
 
 Meanwhile, Miss Morrow had a variety of interest- 
 ing occupations. The old city was becoming gay 
 with its usual moderation, and Miss Morrow danced 
 as few dance. With this she combined frequent late 
 services at St. Agnes 's, and a suddenly developed 
 interest in a variety of matters relating to the ritual. 
 Mr. Knellwood found himself constantly consulted 
 94
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 95 
 
 by Miss Kitty, who, with other young women, had 
 organized an altar fund, and found it needful to be 
 guided to its employment. 
 
 Mr. Knellwood was becoming as uneasy as St. An- 
 , thony. How could he, even to a brother priest, con- 
 ^ fess a trouble which was fast becoming temptation? 
 He was terrified at times by his own peril. If Mrs. 
 Swanwick and her sister Mary saw what Kitty was 
 about they took no step to interfere. They had been 
 thus tempted once when Mr. Masters, having recov- 
 ered from unrequited devotion elsewhere, had been 
 wickedly taken in hand by Kitty, who assumed the 
 fatal role of consoler, and ended by doing more 
 mischief to a heart hospitable to affection than she 
 was capable of imagining. Mary had on this occa- 
 sion expressed herself freely to Kitty, who sulked 
 like a child reproved for breaking a too valuable toy. 
 Tom Masters came nearer to hate than he had ever 
 done in his life, and, indeed, said "some certain 
 things" to Kitty which for a day made her uncom- 
 fortable, and that amiable gentleman still more so, 
 until he had written and apologized for his intem- 
 perate language. All of this he had confided to 
 Margaret Swanwick, who said something in high 
 wrath about pearls which filled him with amazement. 
 He had very meek views as to Tom Masters 's value, 
 and was shocked when Madge said Kitty was a vul- 
 gar coquette. Indeed, she had small affection for 
 her cousin, and was bored to the limit of patience by 
 her mindless chatter. 
 
 One afternoon this mischief-making bit of pretty 
 instinctivity called on Miss Markham to bring the
 
 96 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 letter in which Mrs. Hunter said she should not need 
 the room kept for her. When she entered the pan- 
 eled parlor, Miss Clementina was seated by the fire 
 near Martin Blount. Mr. Craig was wearily look- 
 ing out of the window at the red brick and the white 
 snow-drifts which made up the wintry prospect of a 
 November day. He blew a mist of breath on the 
 pane, and traced figures upon it. He took mild in- 
 terest in the way the old wrinkled glass of the win- 
 dow distorted the figures of men shoveling snow 
 from the sidewalk. 
 
 He had gone out to walk and been repelled by the 
 brisk company of the north wind, for he liked 
 warmth as did his sister, but had no such pleasure 
 as she found in mere exercise. 
 
 Martin Blount had a sore throat, and had been 
 reluctantly compelled by Miss Clementina to remain 
 at home. He was busy with a leather-covered text- 
 book of physiology and now and then looked up, 
 with his difficult smile, to say to his anxious hostess 
 that indeed he could not have flannel around his 
 neck no, not even red flannel. No, he should be all 
 right to-morrow ; but to lose a day of lectures was too 
 bad. He really could not have opodeldoc and his 
 neck rubbed. Craig became for a moment an amused 
 listener. 
 
 "What a ridiculous, fussy old maid," he thought. 
 
 The other man saw again the white waste of a 
 New England winter, the relentless farm life, the 
 scenes of hard labor and temptation in lumber- 
 camps, his friendless youth. A sense of pleasant 
 amaze came over him as the gentle voice recalled him
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 97 
 
 from these sad remembrances. How freshly de- 
 lightful to have a home, to know that others had 
 kind thought of and for him! It was a con- 
 stant novelty. He had never seen a relative, and 
 had never made a friend outside of the books for 
 which he had an inherited liking. He had come of 
 a breed which for two centuries of colonial and na- 
 tional life had been well known and socially of the 
 best and had at last gotten back to the soil whence 
 it came. Now, under this fostering providence of 
 interest and kindness, the qualities of his race began 
 to feel its sunshine. The man was fast becoming 
 gentled. 
 
 Miss Morrow came in, a double-rose from the 
 healthy stinging of the driven snow. Blount got 
 up at once, and Craig, after a glance at the new- 
 comer, also stood up. Miss Clementina said: 
 
 ' ' I am glad to see you, Katherine. Come up-stairs 
 with me." 
 
 Miss Kitty was in no haste. She glanced at the 
 ugly, good-humored face of Blount, who stood a- gaze 
 at the wonderful prettiness of the girl. Then, as 
 she saw Craig turn from the window, she knew at 
 once that he must be the brother of whose beauty 
 and accomplishments Mrs. Hunter had written so 
 much. As he moved forward, he hastily thrust in 
 his pocket the caricature he had been making of 
 Miss Clementina's placid face. Miss Kitty said 
 promptly, in reply to Miss Clementina: 
 
 "I have only a moment. I have a letter from 
 Mrs. Hunter." Miss Clementina had small liking 
 for the over-dressed lodger with the too exact fea- 
 7
 
 JS CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 tores and had no mind to present him to Miss Mor- 
 row. She rejoined: 
 
 "My sister is up-stairs." 
 
 Mr. Craig saw his chance. He had fairly good 
 surface manners, which at times he shed. 
 
 "Pardon me," he said; "Miss Morrow, I am sure, 
 will excuse me if I present myself to my sister's 
 friend. I am Mr. Craig." 
 
 Miss Morrow was glad to see Mr. Craig, "who," 
 she said, "perhaps knew that Mrs. Hunter would 
 arrive next day," and with a word or two more she 
 followed Clementina, thinking a little as she went 
 up-stairs of the singular resemblance between the 
 brother and sister. Craig said, as the door closed : 
 
 ' ' By George, she 's a pretty girl ! Got a look of 
 breeding, of distinction." It was just that which 
 Kitty lacked. As he went on talking, Blount said, 
 as he opened his book : 
 
 ' ' Oh, shut up ! I can 't get these heart-valves 
 clear. Don't bother me!" He, too, disliked this 
 pretentious young fellow, who came up to his attic 
 and borrowed quarters and half-dollars and had to 
 be asked to return them. When, the night before, 
 he had shown Blount Miss Markham cleverly cari- 
 catured on a postal card, Martin had angrily torn 
 up the drawing, and said it was a shame. Craig, 
 surprised at his wrath, hoped he would not speak of 
 it. Blount asked if he thought him a fool. Craig 
 laughed, having no other reply, and took out a cigar, 
 on which Blount said : 
 
 "Can't smoke here. You have done it twice, and 
 Miss Markham made a row. I said I would not do
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 99 
 
 it any more, and now please to leave me with these 
 confounded bones. You would make a lovely skele- 
 ton," he added, grimly. "You will, some day." 
 This was obvious. Craig said : 
 
 "Great George! you 're darned unpleasant some- 
 times," and left him. 
 
 This chanced the night before, and now, when 
 Craig found no idle talk was to be had, he, too, went 
 up-stairs, vaguely hoping to meet Miss Morrow, who. 
 however, had done her friend's errand and gone. 
 As Blount wrestled with the heart movements in the 
 gathering dusk, he heard Dr. Archer enter. 
 
 "Why, halloa, Blount! From Miss Clementina's 
 note I supposed you almost past hope or medicine." 
 . "I am sorry, sir, Miss Clementina troubled you. 
 It is really only a slight cold. It 's just all of a piece, 
 her kindness. I can't tell you, sir, how I thank 
 you for sending me here. It is the only home I have 
 ever had; and as for Miss Clementina's goodness " 
 
 "The good God so made her. Now that I am 
 here, let us see what is wrong. ' ' He went on to study 
 seriously the young fellow's condition, saying finally 
 that it was in fact of small moment. Miss Clemen- 
 tina had written that he would go out without an 
 overcoat, and why was that? 
 
 Martin replied that he and another student, who 
 boarded near by, had only one overcoat between 
 them, and wore it day about. Archer made no 
 comment, but asked where Blount lunched. 
 
 It appeared that the ladies every day put up a 
 small basket of food, having heard with dismay 
 how and where he had taken this meal.
 
 100 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "And what of dinner?" queried Archer, curious. 
 "You stay away late." 
 
 Blount laughed. 
 
 "Well, sir, West that 's my overcoat friend he 
 markets one week and I the next. When he mar- 
 kets, that week I cook. It 's a great waste of time, 
 but it is fine and cheap." 
 
 "And where do you cook?" 
 
 "Well, West has a grate-stove, and the people 
 don't mind the smell of fried things. It would n't 
 do here, sir, you see." 
 
 "Hardly," said Archer. "Stay in to-morrow 
 that will be Saturday. Come and lunch with me at 
 one on Sunday. We shall be alone. I want to talk 
 to you." 
 
 As Archer drove away, he said to himself: 
 
 "I think that boy wants a woman friend, and for 
 the rest, I must tap somebody's purse; my own is 
 rather low. He is having a needlessly hard time. ' ' 
 
 When Sydney Archer set his mind on anything 
 worth doing it was characteristic of the man that 
 he kept it in view until it was in some way disposed 
 of. It is one of the factors of success. If the mat- 
 ter were small, it recurred to him in his few inter- 
 vals of leisure. Any larger subject fastened itself 
 upon him so that to escape it or leave it unsettled 
 was quite impossible. 
 
 When he said to himself that Martin Blount was 
 worth helping he had in mind the fact he well un- 
 derstood, that, for success in life, Blount needed 
 in some way to be socially educated. It was very 
 like Archer to make so unusual a reflection. He
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 101 
 
 knew that tact and good manners in his own pro- 
 fession enormously assist the essential qualities of 
 mind which he was sure the young student possessed. 
 
 As Archer, bent on finding an ally, thought over 
 the available women he knew well enough to ask 
 of them an unusual favor, one constantly presented 
 herself. The nature of Miss Fairthorne was one to 
 which the social evolution of a man like Blount, 
 with good ancestry but untrained taste for the re- 
 finements of life, would surely appeal. She was 
 more imaginative than her sister Margaret; but 
 Archer knew, of course, that what he required was 
 a married woman who could be made to share his 
 own interest in this very intelligent waif. 
 
 Before his lunch with Blount was over he made 
 up his mind that his guest had a rare combination 
 of the mental and moral qualities needed in the 
 physician's life a man whom it would be both a 
 duty and a pleasure to help. 
 
 "Take a cigar," he said. 
 
 "No, sir, thank you. Miss Markham does n't like 
 tobacco, so I gave it up for the time, and if I don't 
 smoke at all it is easier." 
 
 "Then you are happily one of what I call the 
 'unhabituals,' an awkward word for the people who 
 can make and break at will a custom of the body." 
 
 "It does not seem to take much will." 
 
 "Not for you, or for me. By the by, I spoke of 
 you to a friend of mine, a great banker, and he 
 was so interested that he would like to talk with 
 you a little. To be open with you, Mr. Grace helps 
 a great many people who need help."
 
 102 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Oh, but I don't want it, and I " 
 
 "Wait a little. You wear an overcoat only on 
 alternate days ; you will ruin your stomach with bad 
 food ; you are losing time at least, such habits will 
 in the end lose you time.". 
 
 "That is so; but" 
 
 "One moment. Grace will lend you money enough 
 to enable you to live a wholesome life. I have an 
 overcoat I bought which is too big for my breadth. 
 Do you mind taking it?" Martin saw through the 
 kindly device, but said at once : 
 
 " I ! No, sir, I shall be glad ; but about the money ? 
 Do you think I shall be right? I I might never 
 repay it. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I am asking you to do what I did myself. I paid 
 easily. So will you." 
 
 "Yes," said Blount, smiling, "but I am not Syd- 
 ney Archer." 
 
 ./ "No, but you are Martin Blount; and if I under- 
 stand character aright you are going to be among 
 the winners on that front bench folks talk about. 
 Take my advice and take the money. Go to see 
 Mr. Grace to-night. I set nine as the time." 
 
 "I will go." 
 
 "And so must I," said his host; "sorry to turn 
 \/ you out. Don 't study on Sundays. ' ' 
 
 "I never do. I have too much preacher blood for 
 that. Miss Markham takes me to St. Peter's in the 
 mornings. When I said I had been a Congrega- 
 tionalist for two hundred years she said that she did 
 not know what that was, but that it certainly was 
 an exaggerated mode of stating the case. I would
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 103 
 
 go to a mosque if she asked me. In the afternoon 
 on Sundays I walk all over the country." 
 
 The rest of his friendly scheme Archer set aside 
 for the time, until he could interest Mrs. Swanwick. 
 
 When, that evening, Martin Blount found Mr. 
 Grace in his own home, that gentleman said to him : 
 
 ''I wanted to see you, after what Dr. Archer told 
 me. I help a lot of incapables, and it is a pleasure 
 to find a man who does n't want help and ought 
 to have it. I am going to bet on your success, that 
 is all. No, don't interrupt me. It is only a pleas- 
 ant little gamble. You will call to-morrow at my 
 office, and then the first of each month, and give 
 them my card and your name. You will receive a 
 check for fifty dollars. My clerks will know nothing 
 about it." 
 
 "But-" 
 
 "Ah, do keep quiet! You are terribly fond of 
 'buts.' You will give a receipt. This will go on 
 until June. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I said I would take it, ' ' said Blount, flushed and 
 embarrassed. "But, O Lord " 
 
 Grace rose. 
 
 "I want to say to you, finally, that if you took 
 this help easily it would lessen the pleasure I have 
 in a simple duty. You have had, as I had, a hard 
 life ; let me feel that I am saving a good man from 
 needless risks. And now good-bye; I 'm very, very 
 much obliged to you." 
 
 Martin looked up at the clean-shaven, vigorous 
 face, and saw, as Mrs. Swanwick had done, some- 
 thing pathetic in the look which met his own filling
 
 104 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 eyes. He could not speak. He simply wrung the 
 offered hand and went down-stairs with a choky 
 feeling in his throat. He was still unused to kind- 
 ness and within the sturdy young fellow was the 
 tender heart of a child and a rare talent for grati- 
 tude.
 
 XII 
 
 |N the afternoon of that Sunday a very- 
 different meeting took place. Mrs. 
 Hunter had arrived in the city on Sat- 
 urday and Lionel Craig called to see 
 her in the evening at the hotel she had 
 preferred to the house of the Misses Markham. She 
 had learned from Lionel's letters enough to make 
 the oversight of two shrewd maiden ladies seem to 
 her an undesirable element in her campaign. 
 
 Lionel, in his inefficient way, had been trying to 
 secure some kind of clerkship, but, having only cer- 
 tain mildly worded certificates from the college of 
 business and from a former cautious employer, he 
 had so far failed. As usual, his sister's hopefulness 
 sent him away with the belief that she would readily 
 find him friends and a fresh mood of elation pro- 
 duced in him as usual the feeling that he could now 
 afford luxuries. He stopped at the hotel bar and 
 bought a dozen high-priced cigars. Whatever made 
 his weak nature hopeful, at once made him extrava- 
 gant. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter slept late, with a mind at ease. After 
 
 her morning bath she lay down on a lounge in her 
 
 wrapper. For her, also, the probability of success 
 
 had its effect. She rang, and ordered breakfast in 
 
 105
 
 106 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 her room. Despite vigor of mind and body, she was 
 prone to yield to moods of self-indulgence. Rich 
 food and all forms of luxurious rest she found pleas- 
 ant, and would have used strong scents, such as 
 musk, if she had not been sure that to do so sub- 
 jected her to disagreeable comment. She was, how- 
 ever, capable of much temporary sacrifice of her 
 desires. Power she liked for itself, as well as for 
 any practical values it might have, as people like 
 food without reference to its nutrient possibilities, 
 and here was one source of weakness which she 
 could not resist and did not always apprehend. 
 
 She had a fondness for social adventure and a 
 pleasure in small intrigue such as many men have 
 in field sports, but she was at present a little tired 
 of this uncertain existence. When first she met Miss 
 Morrow she had no distinct views as to her own 
 future, until as the girl became the ready victim of 
 her flattery and she heard more and more of her 
 expectations, she began to think how she could make 
 use of so easy a capture. The possibility of also 
 preying upon an old man came to her by degrees. 
 It was for her no novel game, but it seemed as yet 
 only an experiment worth a trial. 
 
 She read lazily "La Cousine Bette," being a good 
 French scholar, or lay at rest with half-closed eyes, 
 dreaming her favorite day-dream of an apartment 
 in Paris, the Bois, and the opera. She had seen 
 Paris for a month, and longed for it again. 
 
 In the afternoon she dressed with care and found 
 her way to John Fairthorne's house. Miss Morrow 
 had gone to Christ Church, St. Agnes 's being under
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 107 
 
 repair, as Mrs. Hunter knew. Enjoying the dry, 
 frosty air, she walked up Second Street, and finding 
 it, still too early, turned up Arch Street to the grave- 
 yard of Christ Church. It was open for a burial. 
 She wandered about for a half-hour, looked at the 
 grave of Franklin, smiled at the odd epitaphs, and 
 glad thus to have escaped a part of the service, at 
 last went thence to the old church in Second Street. 
 
 She sat down in a back pew, and soon saw amid 
 the scant congregation our devout Kitty. At the 
 close of the service she hastened to a side door, and 
 when Kitty came out was bending over the queerly 
 worded epitaph in which Elizabeth Ferguson is com- 
 memorated. 
 
 ' ' Dear Mrs. Hunter ! ' ' cried Kitty. 
 
 "My dearest Katherine ! How long it has been, 
 and how pretty you are, child ! And who was Eliza- 
 beth Ferguson? I shall like to think that when I 
 die you will thus remember me." She pointed to 
 the tombstone. 
 
 "Don't talk about dying," said Kitty. "I hate 
 tombstones, and as for Mrs. Ferguson you must ask 
 uncle." 
 
 Mrs. Hunter knew all about that unlucky and 
 captivating maker of mischief in a far-away time. 
 
 "Come," said Kitty; "you must go home with 
 me. If uncle is not lying down, you must see him. 
 Mary is out in the country with Cousin Margaret, 
 at a farm school. She goes there sometimes on 
 Sunday to teach. It must be an awful bore. I hate 
 dirty boys poor boys." 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Hunter, "that is one of the
 
 108 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 trials of a refined nature," and they walked on, 
 talking, until they reached Kitty's home. The am- 
 ple house impressed Mrs. Hunter agreeably. Yes, 
 Mr. Fairthorne was in the library, and without 
 pause Kitty led her friend up-stairs, saying, rap- 
 turously, as she entered: 
 
 ' ' Oh, Uncle John ! Here is Mrs. Hunter ! ' ' 
 
 It was one of his better days. Fixing his keen 
 eyes on the new-comer, he rose and, with old-fash- 
 ioned courtesy, made her welcome. He liked hand- 
 some women. She caught at once the note of his 
 formal manner, and curtsied slightly as he took her 
 hand and bade her be seated, saying: 
 
 "A fine day, madam, a fine day." 
 
 "A red-letter day for me," she replied. "I have 
 long hoped for the pleasure of seeing Miss Kather- 
 ine's relations." A smile, hardly perceptible, in- 
 dicative of some latent amusement, put Mrs. Hunter 
 on her guard. She had just sat down when Felisa., 
 the cat, moving daintily about, suddenly leaped 
 upon her lap. She liked cats, and said: 
 
 "What a compliment, Mr. Fairthorne." Again 
 he smiled. 
 
 "Perhaps, madam, perhaps. It is certainly an 
 unusual compliment on the part of Felisa. I am 
 the only Fairthorne she cares for. She has occa- 
 sional uncertain flirtations with Kitty. But Kitty 
 is not a Fairthorne. We are of other make." 
 
 "I was for half an hour in the company of Fair- 
 thornes to-day, as I wandered in Christ Church 
 graveyard. I should be afraid if I owned a name 
 like yours that I never could live up to it." He 
 liked the implied flattery.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 109 
 
 "I have never troubled myself much as to that," 
 he said. "I have no genealogical conscience, or, at 
 least, no conviction that I must live up to ancestral 
 virtues. They were uneasy, urgent folk. I am mak- 
 ing up a human average of repose, an example to 
 my restless countrymen. I produce nothing." 
 
 ' ' Oh, Mr. Fairthorne ! You may like to say so, 
 but the mind that produced, years ago, that interest- 
 ing series of papers on the influence of occupation 
 on handwriting and on the effect of different lan- 
 guages on forms of script " The old man was 
 again pleased. 
 
 "Forgotten stuff, madam! You must let me give 
 you a copy." 
 
 ' ' Oh, thank you ; and with your autograph, please. 
 I am very much interested in autographs. May I 
 not some day hope to be shown your collection?" 
 
 "Most gladly, and come soon. There are among 
 them some letters of unusual interest. I am rear- 
 ranging them now in epochs. ' ' 
 
 "How delightful!" 
 
 "My difficulty lies in the fact that no one method 
 of classifying them suits me. ' ' He had, in fact, that 
 excessive desire for method which sometimes defeats 
 its own purpose. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter rose, well satisfied. 
 
 "I shall take you at your word, Mr. Fairthorne." 
 
 He urged her to stay longer. She was too wise, 
 and excusing herself went away with Kitty to her 
 room, while the old man sat still, with a pleasant 
 sense of having had an appreciative visitor. Then 
 he fell asleep. 
 
 When, an hour later, Mary and her sister Mar-
 
 110 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 garet Swanwick entered he woke up. He did not 
 like to be told he had been asleep, so that, mindful 
 of this, Margaret said : 
 
 ' ' Have you had any visitors, uncle ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, she has just gone a most remarkable 
 woman, most intelligent, most appreciative. ' ' 
 
 "And who was it?" said Mary. 
 
 "I told you. How stupid you are, Mary." 
 
 ' ' Thank you, ' ' said she, laughing ; ' ' but as you did 
 not tell us ' ' 
 
 ' ' Oh, well, I thought I did. It was Mrs. Hunter. ' ' 
 
 "And so we have our Kitty's paragon here at 
 last," said Margaret. "I am a trifle curious." 
 
 ' ' She seems to have an interest in autographs that 
 is rather remarkable. I think I may get some ideas 
 from her as to methods of classifying." 
 
 Mary glanced at her sister. John Fairthorne had 
 never been easy of approach and his first judgment 
 of strangers was apt to be tinged with cynical dis- 
 praise. 
 
 "Is she handsome, uncle?" asked Margaret. He 
 said cautiously: 
 
 "Well, rather," and then, rising, he said he 
 thought it was time for his nap, and so left them. 
 It was now near dusk. 
 
 "He has forgotten his drive and his nap," said 
 Mary; "that is unusual for uncle." 
 
 "A total stranger a woman Kitty has picked up, 
 heaven knows why! It is unlike him, altogether 
 unlike him. Why should she have taken to Kitty 
 so abruptly? Do you know anything about the 
 woman ? Tom Masters says she is intelligent. That
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 111 
 
 is hardly descriptive. When he added that she 
 dressed well and had a neat figure, he seemed to feel 
 that he had said enough. ' ' 
 
 "Did you ask him, like a good Philadelphian, who 
 she was?" 
 
 "I did not, but Harry did. Tom, I am given to 
 understand, said he 'd be-something if he knew and 
 what did that matter?" 
 
 ' ' Certain it is that she has captured Kitty, inter- 
 ested Mr. Knellwood and now has pleased Uncle 
 John. I wish I could, dear; it is pretty hard here 
 at times." 
 
 ' ' Well, we ought to be glad that he has found one 
 human being who interests him. I hope she will 
 help to keep him in a good humor. Does she stay 
 long in town ? ' ' 
 
 "I do not know; very likely Kitty does."
 
 XIII 
 
 I HE winter had begun early in stormy 
 earnest, with unusually heavy falls of 
 snow. Archer was busy and made 
 short visits to Mr. Fairthorne, and sec- 
 ondary visits of varying length to Kitty. 
 Mr. Knellwood was absent while his chapel was 
 under repair. The mild gaieties of the cold season 
 went on to Kitty's satisfaction. Mr. Grace dropped 
 in now and then at Mrs. Swan wick's. Lionel Craig 
 grumbled in a small way and idled, a purposeless 
 man, unless to crave unearned luxuries may be 
 called a purpose. 
 
 For a few days Mrs. Hunter contented herself 
 
 with Kitty. They drove together, for it was Kitty 
 
 who commonly monopolized her uncle's carriage 
 
 when bad weather forbade his driving. Her cousin 
 
 Mary preferred a walk or a ride, defying all weather. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter waited. Mr. Fairthorne seemed to 
 
 have forgotten her, but at last she moved the pawn. 
 
 " Kitty, I am a little hurt, dear," she said, ''that 
 
 your cousins have not called on me." Kitty felt 
 
 that her own society ought to satisfy her friend, 
 
 but when that lady said that it was really not very 
 
 respectful to Kitty, the latter saw fit to act on a 
 
 hint from Mrs. Hunter, and finding her uncle one 
 
 112
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 113 
 
 day in the state in which Kitty's demonstrative at- 
 tentions were agreeable, she said, as she played with 
 his hair : 
 
 "Don't you think Mary ought to call on Mrs. 
 Hunter, uncle? I think she would like to come 
 often to see you, and me, too; but, of course, she 
 feels, you know " here Kitty's memory failed her. 
 She paused. 
 
 ' ' Well, what the deuce does she feel ? ' ' 
 
 "Oh, she does admire you so much. She says you 
 are the best talker she ever knew." 
 
 The old man smiled feebly. He was this day 
 a little inert, a little weary of a life he had made 
 monotonous. At another time he might have 
 turned on her, cynically critical of her ill-played 
 game. 
 
 "Quite right," he said. "Remind me, and I will 
 see to it. I shall insist on her being treated with re- 
 spect. Where is Mary? Send her to me." 
 
 Kitty, pleased, but a little dubious, found Mary 
 busy in her room. 
 
 "Uncle wants you," she said. 
 
 "What, already?" said Mary, rising. "It is 
 hardly ten. ' ' She followed Kitty, who was too curi- 
 ous and too eager not to desire to see how her sug- 
 gested scheme would work. Mrs. Hunter really cared 
 little that Miss Fairthorne should call. Kitty was, 
 as yet, enough her friend ; but what she also desired 
 was to establish some closer relation with the uncle 
 and yet to seem in no haste. Miss Fairthorne, how- 
 ever, had seen fit not to call on her, and Mrs. Hunter 
 could not resist the wish to make her do so. She
 
 114 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 had been wiser to have refrained from the use of 
 power which could do her no good. 
 
 Mr. Fairthorne had recovered the memory of a 
 handsome, appreciative woman. Kitty kissed and 
 caressed him and bored him. Mary had too posi- 
 tive views, and many interests. As for Madge, she 
 was "too damned logical for a woman." As he 
 grew more feeble, his self-esteem cast off the gar- 
 ments of his training and the crude appetite for 
 praise grew upon him. He had also the old man's 
 hidden fear of loss of consideration. He said to 
 Kitty, as her cousin followed : 
 
 "What was it I wanted Mary for?" This was 
 more than Kitty had expected. She said promptly : 
 
 "I do not know, sir," but she colored a little as 
 she told her lie, and this did not escape her cousin's 
 eye. 
 
 "Why do you lie," said Fairthorne, "you little 
 cat ! You want Mary to call on Mrs. Hunter. Quite 
 right, too, quite right. I wish you to call, Mary; 
 I desire you to ask her to dine. I need intelligent 
 society. I am neglected by everybody." 
 
 "If," said Mary, "you want me to call upon Mrs. 
 Hunter I will do so." 
 
 "Yes, to-day." 
 
 "Kitty asked me, but I saw no reason why I 
 should call, and the little I know of her" She 
 checked herself. "I did not know that Kitty really 
 cared whether I went or not. The fact is, I forgot 
 all about it. I am sorry she thought it necessary to 
 appeal to you. I will call on Mrs. Hunter ' ' 
 
 "And ask Margaret to call," he said.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 115 
 
 ' ' That, ' ' said Mary, ' ' I must ask you to do, uncle. 
 Is there anything else?" 
 
 "No, that is all." 
 
 That afternoon she went, but she was not eager to 
 find Mrs. Hunter, and was relieved to hear that she 
 was out. Happy to be done with it, she walked up 
 Walnut Street, rejoicing in the snow and the blue 
 sky. Glad of a change of human company, she went 
 on to her sister 's house. Her uncle had twice recalled 
 her, and had kept her occupied for many hours of 
 the morning, but now, tingling with the wholesome 
 freshness of the winter air, she felt renewed in mind 
 and temper, and went gaily up-stairs. As she en- 
 tered, Madge said : 
 
 "Mr. Grace, Mary." Tom Masters also greeted 
 her, and she sat down, well pleased to know the 
 banker of whom Dr. Archer had said enough to 
 excite her curiosity and secure her esteem. 
 
 "I see you ride," he said, "and in all weathers, 
 Miss Fairthorne, and are fond, too, of my own 
 favorite resort the meadows of the Neck." 
 
 They talked of how much it was like Holland and 
 of how bad the roads were, and at last he said : 
 
 "I used to see your uncle on horseback, but I sup- 
 pose he is now too old; a pity he has become such 
 a hermit, I might say an intellectual hermit; I 
 fancy he never did take any large interest in the 
 life and politics of the city." 
 
 "Nor of the nation, I am sorry to say. He voted 
 for Lincoln, but has never voted since, and what 
 political principles he has he inherited. He says he 
 is a Federalist."
 
 116 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 ' ' So was Washington, and I think would not have 
 been on the side of his State had he lived in those 
 sad sixties." 
 
 "Do you yourself take any keen interest in poli- 
 tics, Mr. Grace?" 
 
 "I? of course. It is a duty." 
 
 Mary Fairthorne liked the imperative way in 
 which he spoke. 
 
 "I wish all the younger men shared your convic- 
 tion ; to feel as strongly as I do and to be absolutely 
 without voice or influence is most unpleasant." 
 
 "And would you like to vote?" he asked. 
 
 "I do not see why I should not." At this mo- 
 ment Kitty entered, and Mary, amused at the 
 thought her coming suggested, added : ' ' But I should 
 like to choose the female voters." 
 
 "And I the men," he cried. 
 
 Miss Kitty sat down between Mr. Masters and 
 Margaret. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Masters, I am glad to see you. I saw 
 you at the Assembly, but we had not even one 
 dance." He felt this to be brutal. He was still 
 sore with a very real pain, but Miss Kitty was like a 
 cat which, having left a captured mouse, returns at 
 intervals to see if there be any life worth sporting 
 with. Margaret watched her, half sorry, half dis- 
 gusted. 
 
 "I wish," she thought, "that Kitty was not so 
 obvious." 
 
 Meanwhile, Mr. Grace asked Miss Pairthorne if 
 she chanced to know a Mrs. Lucretia Hunter. 
 
 "Pardon my question. She has brought her bro-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 117 
 
 ther to me, and wants a place for him in my office. I 
 ask you because she gave me to understand that she 
 knew you all. A clever woman, I thought. The 
 brother did not impress me very favorably. I rather 
 think the sister has had a hard life." 
 
 Mary was at once on her guard. 
 
 "She is a friend of my cousin, Miss Morrow. I 
 personally do not know her well." 
 
 "Then I must ask Miss Morrow," he said. "How 
 very pretty she is." He was feeling with all the 
 force of his natural but untrained refinement the 
 pleasantness of the society into which he was slowly 
 finding his way. Of course he overestimated what 
 to him was so freshly agreeable and when Miss 
 Kitty, as Masters moved away, turned upon him 
 the fatal artillery of youth and physical loveliness, 
 he accepted without reserve Miss Kitty's estimate 
 of her friend. When he spoke of the brother with 
 some doubt Miss Morrow said it would be a real 
 charity at least to give him a chance. This decided 
 him, and he readily assented. 
 
 "Now, how nice it would be if I could tell my 
 friend that you would oblige her and me," she 
 added, turning her childlike blue eyes upon the 
 strong face of Roger Grace. They had done, in 
 their time, much wilful mischief, but never igno- 
 rantly so much as now. 
 
 "I am glad to oblige you. I will give him a 
 chance. ' ' 
 
 Kitty thanked him warmly, and, after further 
 talk, he went away with Miss Morrow, as Dr. Archer 
 entered.
 
 118 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Your uncle is very wilful to-day, Miss Mary," 
 said the doctor. "Do you see how fast he is 
 changing?" 
 
 "I do. His love of method is at times really a 
 mania and no method suits him long. He used to 
 be courteous and to apologize for his irritability. 
 Now he never does. My cousin Kitty has a love 
 affair with him one day and the next drives him 
 frantic." 
 
 "He must be easily vexed. How any one can 
 quarrel with so gentle a being as Miss Katherine I 
 do not see. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Swanwick smiled to herself. Mary did not 
 smile. 
 
 "It is strange that at times he should yet be his 
 old interesting self," continued Archer. "He talked 
 to me very long about Mrs. Hunter, Miss Katherine 's 
 friend. ' ' 
 
 "Indeed," said Mrs. Swanwick, "I suppose we 
 should be glad that she is willing to amuse him. ' ' 
 
 Mary was silent, and, after some less personal talk, 
 Archer asked if Mr. Swanwick was at home. No, he 
 was not. The women discussed the Farm School 
 Home and minor matters, while Archer sat still. At 
 last Madge said: "You are quiet, Sydney. Are you 
 tired?" 
 
 "No," he said, "I was only indulging in the 
 privilege of giving my tongue a holiday. I talk all 
 day ; no one has to talk as much as a doctor." 
 
 "And yet," said Miss Fairthorne, laughing, "peo- 
 ple say women will not make good doctors. ' ' 
 
 "They can be anything," said Margaret, deci-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 119 
 
 sively; "if they should be is quite another matter. 
 As I see it, celibacy is essential to a woman doctor. 
 You cannot compromise with this tremendously 
 natural business of motherhood." 
 
 "You touch the true question," said Archer. 
 They went on to discuss eagerly other questions then 
 maturing in regard to the need to enlarge the edu- 
 cation of women. When presently he and Madge 
 spoke of nurses and of their want of a fuller pre- 
 liminary education, Mary, who had listened with 
 interest, said: 
 
 "I should like to be a nurse." The craving for 
 some exacting role of duty had of late been much in 
 her mind. 
 
 "You would make a good one," said Archer. 
 
 "I am not sure," she returned. "I might fancy 
 hospital work. Do you yourself prefer ward work 
 to private practice ? ' ' 
 
 "Oh, both both; but the wards for study. By 
 the way, when you go to the Farm School of a Sun- 
 day your readings in our men's ward are greatly 
 missed. ' ' 
 
 "Are they indeed?" She flushed joyously. 
 "Thank you, but you fail to really answer us." 
 
 "Yes, you must not get me on to my hobby. Take 
 the best and ablest of men, give him the heart of 
 St. John, give genius, every accomplishment, and 
 he will never rise to the ideal level of the perfect 
 physician. There is no life fit to compare to it." 
 
 "The clergyman's?" asked Margaret. 
 
 "Oh, no! That has too many limitations. No! 
 Ah, see how you have trapped me. ' '
 
 120 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 He was waiting for Miss Fairthorne to go. She 
 lingered, half unwillingly. This man affected her 
 as no other had ever done. Secure in her modestly 
 guarded secret, she was now yielding to the mere 
 pleasure of being in Archer's company. 
 
 Seeing, at last, that Miss Mary was for some rea- 
 son of no mind to leave, he said to himself : 
 
 "Why, after all, may I not talk myself out before 
 her?" He set about his kindly business artfully. 
 
 "Do you not think Grace an interesting speci- 
 men of the best kind of our self-made men ? ' ' 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Miss Fairthorne. "I saw several 
 of the species last year in Washington, but none 
 like Mr. Grace. Usually they were handicapped by 
 some commonplace wife." 
 
 "The man who means to rise," said Mrs. Swan- 
 wick, "who means to make himself, ought to marry 
 at forty. The woman partner is very important. 
 It is amazing how some men who rise from the soil 
 assimilate all that is best in life. I do not think that 
 the same class of woman has this power." 
 
 "Has she ever a man's opportunities?" asked 
 Mary. 
 
 "No, perhaps not," returned Archer. "Speak- 
 ing of Grace reminds me of a young fellow who just 
 now interests me a good deal." He went on to tell 
 very cleverly of the partnership in the overcoat and 
 of the domestic economies of the two young men, 
 sketching at last with much adroitness the sad, home- 
 less life and the strong mental and moral character 
 of Martin Blount. 
 
 "And so our dear white mice, the Markhams, are
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 121 
 
 caring for him!" said Miss Fairthorne. "Clemen- 
 tina spoke of him to me. If you need any help if 
 he needs money you might let me do my share." 
 
 Archer laughed, well pleased. 
 
 "No, that is provided for. He won a scholarship, 
 and the rest is assured. 
 
 \/ "Ah!" said Mary. "I envy him the battle of 
 life." 
 
 "He will win, but just now the man needs some- 
 thing else. He is socially untrained, and, alas! 
 where is there a college for manners? He is un- 
 neat, careless as to dress, and you will shudder at 
 his nails. In fact, he ate with his knife until Miss 
 Markham mildly mentioned the desirability of using 
 the fork. But, really, he is worth polishing. He is 
 N/ only by the accidents of misfortune a son of the 
 soil. ' ' 
 
 "Why not bring him here?" said Mrs. Swan wick. 
 
 "I wanted you to say that. And now I may tell 
 you what is strange, that he and I have a common 
 descent, as we both share the blood of Edward Fitz 
 Randolph, who came to Massachusetts in 1640. My 
 people finally went to Carolina; Blount's were a 
 race of New England clergymen, governors, and 
 soldiers. He has some of their grimness. Of 
 course, this far-away kinship interests me. Will you 
 help him?" 
 
 "Bring him here on Sunday night, and I will see." 
 
 "Very good," and he left. Then Mary said: 
 "Uncle made me call on Mrs. Hunter, but I refused 
 to ask you to do so. He will ask you himself, unless 
 he forgets it. I have seen her twice with Kitty,
 
 122 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 and I still marvel why a woman of education and 
 so clever should take a fancy to Kit. I suppose 
 Kitty will drop her as she does friends and lovers. 
 There is something about the woman I do not fancy. 
 What it is I cannot tell, but I can usually predict 
 my dislikes." 
 \J "How feminine that is, Mary!" 
 
 "Well, it is none the worse for that." 
 
 "But you must have some grounds. What are 
 they?" 
 
 "She is well, she is furtive." 
 
 "The synonym for stealthy, dear." 
 
 "There are no such things as synonyms. She is 
 furtive and may be stealthy. Furtive I insist upon. 
 However, we shall see. Meanwhile, good or bad, she 
 is interesting." 
 
 "And so is Sydney Archer. How well he told 
 his little story. I wish Kitty would let him alone. 
 He is quite too good for her." 
 
 ' ' I hope you will not interfere. ' ' She knew Madge 
 well. "Please do not. It would be useless, quite 
 useless, Madge, and he will never marry Kitty." 
 
 "Why do you think so?" 
 
 "I know, I do not think." 
 
 ' ' Some time ago, Mary, I had a suspicion that ' ' 
 
 "Nonsense ! Oh, there is Harry. It is late and he 
 must walk home with me. By-by, dear," and she 
 went down to capture her brother-in-law in the hall, 
 while Margaret said to herself: 
 
 "I was foolish to talk to Mary." Nevertheless, 
 she knew herself so well that she was sure she should 
 some day yield to the temptation to warn or advise
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 123 
 
 Sydney Archer. She was sometimes too much in- 
 clined to interfere in other folk's affairs, not, like 
 Mrs. Hunter, from mere love of rule, but because, 
 being a warm friend, the desire to help and her belief 
 in her own judgment were apt to conquer in the end.
 
 xrv 
 
 FEW days later Mrs. Hunter, walking 
 to and fro under the bare trees in 
 what we still call the State-House yard, 
 talked to her brother. 
 
 "Lionel, you now have a good place 
 and the best chance you have ever had. I know you 
 will try hard." She had her doubts. 
 
 Of course he would try, but the salary was very 
 small, and those old ladies very disagreeably par- 
 ticular. 
 
 ' ' And yet, you must stay, ' ' she said. ' ' I am mak- 
 ing friends for you and for myself." She said no 
 word as to what her schemes were. As far as pos- 
 sible she hid from him what might appear too 
 crooked in a rather seamy life. She wished the 
 only person she loved to think well of her. But far 
 more did she desire him to be all that she was not. 
 Her own cravings were for ease, luxury, dress, music. 
 Her ambitions for him were far higher. With his 
 looks and manners, for here she lost power to be 
 critical, what might he not do and be? She prom- 
 ised him that before long he should see Kitty, and 
 perhaps, who knows They both laughed. But, 
 above all, he must satisfy Mr. Grace, and now he 
 must go. It was time he went to the office.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 125 
 
 She herself had lingered for this talk on her way 
 to visit Mr. Fairthorne, who had asked for her again 
 and again. She had pretended occupation, and 
 waited. 
 
 Kitty was, as usual, delighted to see her. No one 
 else listened to her good-humored prattle as did Mrs. 
 Hunter. They kissed a good deal, and Kitty said: 
 ''Uncle expects you to-day, and I hope, too, you will 
 see Mary. Father Knellwood will be here to make 
 an appointment about the meeting of the altar so- 
 ciety. You must join it. I was sure you would." 
 
 Mrs. Hunter was happy at the thought of meeting 
 him, and would do whatever her dear Kitty desired. 
 What a pleasure to see that the decorations of the 
 altar were all that they should be. There was ordi- 
 narily so much bad taste in religion. Kitty trea- 
 sured the phrase for future use. 
 
 As Mary Fairthorne was continually taking her- 
 self to task for something done or thought, it was 
 natural for her to feel that on too small grounds she 
 had harshly judged her cousin's friend. Certainly 
 Miss Morrow was injudicious in her unfaltering 
 admiration of her new friend, and had never learned 
 that excess of praise is apt, for obvious reasons, to 
 provoke a tendency toward suspicious undervaluing 
 of the thing praised. Mary thought of this and of 
 the injustice it may occasion. When she was told 
 that Mrs. Hunter had come to see Mr. Fairthorne, 
 she rose in the freshness of self-condemnation, re- 
 solved to be very pleasant to Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 As she went down-stairs she remembered that Mr. 
 Masters had once asked Margaret Swanwick what
 
 J 
 
 126 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 would happen if folks tired of themselves could have 
 a character auction and sell out and buy in. 
 
 "What," thought Mary, "would Kitty's fetch? or 
 Mrs. Hunter's?" The idea had amused and also 
 a little surprised her, until Masters had said it was 
 Pilgrim's wisdom. Meeting Mrs. Hunter on the 
 stairs, she addressed her with a graciousness which 
 gained something from her unusual height and made 
 her greeting seem like a generous compliment to the 
 guest of the hour. 
 
 ' ' I am glad to see you, ' ' she said, as she turned to 
 reascend the stair. "I was not so fortunate as to 
 find you at home. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Hunter, who was prepared by self-knowledge 
 to expect a hostile, or at least a cool reception, at 
 once became cordial. 
 
 "You were very good to call on me, Miss Fair- 
 thorne. I know how full your life is and how little 
 v leisure you must have." 
 
 A mildly critical comment arose in Mary's mind, 
 an instinctive sense that this lady, with her good 
 taste in dress and her intelligence, was not an en- 
 y/ tirely well-bred woman. She said : 
 
 "I hope to be more fortunate in future. My 
 uncle sees very few people, but he has been asking 
 for you, and is very well to-day, which is not always 
 the case. Mrs. Hunter, Uncle John." She set a 
 chair near him, as he said: "I am very glad to 
 see you. Sit down ; excuse my not rising. I am not 
 very strong to-day, but I can always talk. If that 
 confounded doctor did not dose me I should be bet- 
 ter. I have no faith in his tribe."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 127 
 
 Mary laughed. 
 
 "But if he misses seeing you every day you do 
 not like it. ' ' 
 
 "Mere habit! A question of habit. He is in- 
 telligent enough, and talks well. If I do not take 
 his stuff he stays away and then I miss the talk. 
 We all believe in drugs, sort of fetich a survival 
 of the medicine man." 
 
 "That depends," said Mrs. Hunter. "From all 
 I hear, Dr. Archer is an unusual man and a very 
 original thinker. I have long wished to see him." 
 
 "Then you can have a consultation presently," 
 said Kitty, who was restlessly moving about, while 
 Felisa again made herself comfortable on Mrs. Hun- 
 ter's lap, to the surprise of Miss Fairthorne. She, 
 herself, did not like cats, and now she fancied this 
 woman a little less because of Felisa 's sudden friend- 
 liness. She said to herself : 
 
 ' ' How ridiculous of me ! ' ' 
 
 Her uncle, rather amused, went on talking of cats 
 and of Washington's aversion to them and of the 
 odd fact that cats are not mentioned in the Bible. 
 
 "Perhaps that was because the Egyptians wor- 
 shiped cats," said Mrs. Hunter. 
 
 "Or perhaps," returned Mary, "because there are 
 so few mice in the Bible." 
 
 Mrs. Hunter knew a woman who fainted when a 
 cat was in the room, and wondered why to see a 
 caged tiger did not kill her outright. She talked 
 well and had read enough to sustain the delusion 
 of having read more. She asked questions and re- 
 ceived the replies of Fairthorne with an air of sur-
 
 128 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 prise and satisfaction; but playing to this double 
 audience tasked all her power and she was relieved 
 when Miss Fairthorne rose. 
 
 Mary had remained long enough to feel assured 
 that her uncle was for that hour well pleased and 
 that she might without discourtesy escape. She 
 said, w r hen for a moment there was a pause: 
 
 "You will pardon me if I leave you with my 
 uncle." 
 
 A few minutes later, Kitty, who was never long 
 at rest, said she too must be excused for a few 
 minutes, and thus, at last, Lucretia found herself 
 alone with her host, a coveted chance. 
 
 The woman who sat beside John Fairthorne more 
 than satisfied his exactions as to face and figure, for, 
 like a greater philosopher of his own city, he is said 
 to have remarked that in women he liked best mod- 
 erate intelligence, capacity to listen, and a good fig- 
 ure; and as for the face, that was of less moment. 
 In his narrowing life he had grown to be observant 
 of things which escape the inattentively busy and, 
 in fact, liked to waste in the futile study of hand- 
 scripts a mind which, although once capable enough, 
 had suffered from lazy disuse and later from per- 
 sonal dislike of the competitions of life. 
 
 After a half -hour of chat, Mrs. Hunter suddenly 
 rose and, with the joyousness of a girl, cried : 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Fairthorne, is not that a portrait of 
 General Wayne? Pardon me, I must look at it." 
 The picture, a Kitcat portrait, was framed by the 
 bookshelves around it, and was the only picture in 
 the library, a room which extended across the sixty-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 129 
 
 feet width of the house. Mrs. Hunter stood with 
 hands behind her back. 
 
 ' ' What a virile face, ' ' she said. 
 
 Meanwhile, John Fairthorne watched her, and, ex- 
 cited by this new visitor, talked on as she gazed at 
 the great soldier or turned her animated face toward 
 her host. He was in the presence of an actress so 
 great that she was sometimes for the moment the 
 person she was acting. 
 
 "I am glad you like it," he said. "The artist is 
 unknown. Some day you must come to our country 
 home. Most of my family portraits are there. We 
 will drive over to St. David's, where Wayne lies 
 buried. My great-uncle was on his staff at Stony 
 Point." 
 
 "Yes, I know," she said; "George Fairthorne." 
 
 She remained before the portrait, while her host, 
 more critically considering her, said to himself : 
 
 ' ' What an ivory-like skin yes, a pearl hue. ' ' He 
 was pleased to have found the right word. "Inter- 
 esting face, noticeable face." Strongly pronounced 
 eyebrows, large, deeply-set eyes, passionless and 
 rather thin, very red lips contributed to her general 
 expression something which inevitably attracted, 
 but did not quite satisfy. 
 
 "Devilish handsome," he concluded. Perhaps 
 that did describe her and was a better summary than 
 he guessed it to be. 
 
 "Sit down," he said. "I cannot hear well at a 
 distance, but I hear your voice unusually clearly." 
 He did. 
 
 She moved a chair close to his, and slowly, with 
 
 9
 
 130 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 purpose, drew off her gloves, saying, as if the act 
 suggested the remark: 
 
 "What pretty hands Miss Kitty has!" 
 
 "Hands!" he returned. "No character in them 
 none ! No character in them ; you may see that in 
 her writing. I could describe her hand from the 
 abominable scrawl she writes." 
 
 "Indeed? That is beyond my skill. You must 
 pardon a stranger if I say that you have the ideal 
 masculine hand, the hand of intellect and refine- 
 ment." She had heard of this as one of his small 
 vanities. 
 
 "Ah!" he said, with his old-world manner, "the 
 value of flattery lies in the flatterer." 
 
 "No, no," she cried. "It would be true if Miinch- 
 hausen had said it. But could you from my hand 
 tell how I write? See, sir," and she set forth for 
 inspection her most faultless possession, a nearly 
 perfect hand. The old gentleman took it in his, 
 looked it over and retained it, as if forgetful. 
 
 "Yes, I could tell." 
 
 "But you have seen my writing." 
 
 "Yes, yes, very true," he laughed; "that assists 
 one," and still he kept his prisoner. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter, hearing some one coming up the 
 stairs, said: 
 
 "Do you not think, sir, you have sufficiently in- 
 spected my hand?" She laughed gaily, gently set- 
 ting herself free, and rising as she added : " I fear 
 you are not always to be trusted in these studies. 
 Bad people do say that you were very fatal to my
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 131 
 
 "Chut, chut!" he cried, much delighted. "I 
 am past all such follies a broken old man. Age 
 has" 
 
 ' ' Age ! ' ' she broke in. ' ' Time has taken with one 
 hand and given with the other." 
 
 "Very pretty that, madam; very neat, but damned 
 nonsense. Pardon me, I have the bad ways of the 
 men of my day." 
 
 "But they were men!" she cried. "And now, 
 good-bye, and may I, may I say I have a good deal 
 of leisure ? Miss Fairthorne is busy, Miss Katherine 
 otherwise occupied," and she smiled. "If ever you 
 have any work on your autographs you could let me 
 do at home, I should feel honored." 
 
 "Thank you. I may take you at your word; but 
 you would have to work here. I could not trust my 
 autographs out of my house not even with you, 
 madam. ' ' 
 
 "Oh! I beg pardon, of course not. How could 
 I have ventured to think of such a thing!" She 
 never had believed that he would, and when he re- 
 turned: "But perhaps you will come and look over 
 them with me," she said that would be an added 
 pleasure, and asked when it would suit him. 
 
 "Why not to-morrow?" he said. 
 
 "How delightful! And about this hour? About 
 eleven ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, that would do. We shall be quite alone 
 then. Ah ! Do not go. Here is my daily nuisance, 
 my doctor. Archer," he rose with some effort, "per- 
 mit me to present you to Mrs. Hunter." 
 
 Archer took her hand, and, interested by what he
 
 132 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 had heard of her, looked her over quickly with an 
 eye trained to observe, and trained also not to seem 
 to observe. He thought her appearance singular 
 an unusual type but she was Miss Morrow's friend. 
 Nevertheless, he vaguely felt the serpent-like power 
 of this woman to attract and still to be what he 
 hesitated to call repellent. 
 
 "I was about to leave, Dr. Archer," she said, 
 "but I am glad to see you, if only for a moment. 
 You will hardly believe me, but I have read your 
 essay in the 'Atlantic' on the 'Medical Organiza- 
 tion of the Roman Armies. ' " It was a little bit 
 of the literary by-play of a busy life and the one 
 of his minor essays which had given him the most 
 pleasure. Needless to say, she knew it by title only. 
 He did not see why he ought to feel surprise at her 
 having read it, but he did. He disliked to be the 
 subject of discussion, so that when she asked Mr. 
 Fairthorne if he had read Dr. Archer's book on the 
 "Psychology of Childhood," he turned the talk, 
 saying : 
 
 "Oh, no one reads that but mothers, and they do 
 not understand it. How are you to-day, Mr. Fair- 
 thorne?" 
 
 Mrs. Hunter accepted the hint and, hoping she 
 might soon have the pleasure of a longer talk, went 
 away to the library Franklin founded and spent an 
 hour over the book last in question. She thought, 
 as she closed it : 
 
 "A strong man, that. He may be in the way. 
 Shall he marry Kitty or not ? I think not. I want 
 her. I must know Mary Fairthorne better. Yes,"
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 133 
 
 she said, ' ' that will do ; I must make her life easier, 
 and I can." 
 
 Here her confidence in her own capacity misled 
 her. Her love of rule was certain to be the success- 
 ful foe of her politic wish.
 
 XV 
 
 kRS. HUNTER wrote next day and ex- 
 cused herself to Mr. Fairthorne. She 
 had some literary work to do. He was 
 vexed, and made both his nieces feel 
 his disappointment. The day after 
 Kitty reported that Mrs. Hunter had a headache. 
 Even Mary began to think that a visit from Kitty's 
 friend might be desirable, but what with one excuse 
 and another Lucretia failed to appear. She was 
 playing her fish with patient skill. 
 
 When, after some days, Mary Fairthorne came 
 in about noon, she found Mrs. Hunter busy over 
 a table covered with portfolios of autographs. Her 
 uncle, hearing her, let fall the hand he had laid 
 on Mrs. Hunter's shoulder, as he stood beside her 
 chair. 
 
 "Come in, Mary," he said cheerfully. "Mrs. 
 Hunter has given me a hint as to how to cross-cata- 
 logue. We are going to try it on the reign of Anne. 
 Authors and the subject of their letters. Will you 
 give Mrs. Hunter some lunch ? We are through for 
 to-day." 
 
 Mary, who always found it hard to believe ill of 
 anybody, although by no means drawn to Mrs. Hun- 
 ter, had no valid suspicions of evil against Kitty's 
 134
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 135 
 
 friend and was for a while a little amused and con- 
 siderably relieved by her frequent visits to John 
 Fairthorne. She had put aside as without founda- 
 tion the impression that lady had made upon her 
 and now pleasantly insisted upon her coming down 
 to lunch. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter was here on new ground. The old 
 silver and the buff-and-gold Nankin china pleased 
 her, as did the bowl of roses on the table, the ease 
 of her hostess. She talked quietly and well of the 
 latest books, of her pleasure that her brother was 
 with Mr. Grace, and altogether made a good impres- 
 sion. When at last Mary asked if she meant to re- 
 main long in the city she said two or three months ; 
 that she was doing some magazine work on which she 
 was, to some extent, dependent. That she picked up 
 a little money by writing items for a New York 
 journal she did not state. She went on to add that 
 she was in Philadelphia chiefly to use the library of 
 the Historical Society. 
 
 "I envy you work that you must do," said Mary. 
 
 "It is pleasant to find in my life anything that 
 a woman like you can envy. I am to write a series 
 of articles on the women of colonial times." 
 
 "I am sure that my uncle could help you. He 
 knows oh, wickedly well! everybody's family his- 
 tory." 
 
 "Yes, he has already given me useful hints; and 
 will you pardon me if I say something unusual?" 
 
 "Certainly," said Mary, smiling. "What is it?" 
 
 "He has asked me you heard what he said to 
 aid him in the cataloguing of his collection; but I
 
 136 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 did feel, Miss Fairthorne, I do feel that, as it would 
 make me a frequent visitor, I could not say frankly 
 yes, until I learned whether it would be entirely 
 agreeable to you. Katherine thinks that it would 
 really relieve you. I think you must understand 
 my very reasonable hesitation. I have the time, 
 and, frankly, it will be of more or less use to me in 
 a variety of ways. Mr. Fairthorne has such remark- 
 able literary sympathies ' She felt she had made 
 a mistake. Something in Mary's look told her this 
 as the girl replied a little coldly: 
 
 "I really can see no objection." After all, it was 
 her uncle's affair, not hers; and it would at least 
 relieve her in a measure. She added, more cor- 
 dially: "I think my uncle enjoys your assistance. 
 Whatever pleases him pleases us." 
 
 Mrs. Hunter felt that for the time this was 
 enough and, the lunch being over, they rose, as a 
 servant announced that Mr. Knellwood was in the 
 drawing-room to see Miss Morrow, but that Miss 
 Katherine was out. She had an easy way of for- 
 getting engagements. Mary said : 
 
 "Perhaps he will wait. I have an engagement. 
 I must go out. You will excuse me." 
 
 "If you will allow me, I will join Mr. Knellwood 
 and wait for your cousin." 
 
 "Certainly, if you like," and Mrs. Hunter was 
 shown into the dismal drawing-room. 
 
 Mr. Knellwood had been out of town, as we have 
 said, and on his return had found several notes from 
 Miss Kitty. He had penitently schooled himself 
 while absent and returned serious and full of self-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 137 
 
 reproach and his usual fervor. Miss Kitty's notes 
 were of no moment ; but he had now another errand. 
 He wanted money. He always wanted money, and 
 it was hard to resist him. Roger Grace simply 
 asked ' ' How much ? ' ' and John Fairthorne, who was 
 indifferent about the poor, gave because giving was a 
 traditional family habit, and because, as he said, 
 when Mary grew curious about motives: "Well, I 
 do not go to church must do something, and, be- 
 sides, I like Knellwood." Margaret Swanwick said 
 this was vague; and Mary replied that a very fair 
 amount of human goodness was vague and not al- 
 ways to be explained. 
 
 Miss Kitty was a person who made tremendous 
 confidences and now Lucretia was her advisory con- 
 fessor and knew as well as a shrewd woman could 
 know the veering winds of Kitty's mind. Herself 
 cold and passionless, she could not fully apprehend 
 the influence which this self-indulgent beauty ex- 
 erted over so many men. It was the force which in 
 all ages has mocked the rivalry of every other femi- 
 nine influence mere bodily perfection, with the 
 animal instinct of desire to capture. It is apt in the 
 end to make passionate surrender to some coarse 
 athlete, or, at least, to fall sense-wakened before 
 some man of athletic build. Women like Kitty are 
 ruled by their instincts. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter, without clearly understanding why, 
 soon saw that for Kitty the nobly built clergyman 
 was a heart-risk larger than the more accomplished 
 physician. She meant, however, to own Kitty body 
 and soul, and, looking far ahead, intended that nei-
 
 138 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 ther man should marry her. The game grew diffi- 
 cult, but this player enjoyed it. 
 
 "Father Knellwood," she said, as she noted with 
 surprise the upright carriage of the athletic priest, 
 and his drawn, ascetic features, "allow me to pre- 
 sent myself I am Mrs. Hunter, and I am more glad 
 to see you than I can say." 
 
 She saw his failure to put out his hand. He 
 avoided this manual greeting like a nun, and Mrs. 
 Hunter knew it in time. 
 
 "Miss Morrow has spoken much of you, and I 
 have had, too, your very interesting letters. I am 
 glad of the chance of learning what kind of work 
 you desire. I have been away for a while." 
 
 She replied that she had already joined the altar 
 society. He smiled a kindly, gradual smile, and 
 said: 
 
 "That is hardly work, you know, Mrs. Hunter." 
 
 "Oh, no ! But I thought I would wait a little and 
 see." She was not quite free enough to visit among 
 the poor. Her magazine work left her tired and she 
 was not yet strong enough. 
 
 The rector considered briefly the compact figure 
 and the clear, ivory-like tint of her face, and said : 
 
 "I find, myself, that helping Christ's poor is a 
 marvelous tonic." 
 
 "Soon or late," she returned, "you shall have all 
 there is of me to give." 
 
 "Not I, but another, my dear lady. Now I must 
 leave you. I came to beg a little from Miss Kath- 
 erine. She is generous, indeed lavish, when she 
 has means, but as she is still under age she has not 
 as much to give as Miss Mary."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 139 
 
 ' ' Let me help you, Mr. Knellwood. That the little 
 I can offer is of my own making may give it value. 
 Do you think the widow had earned the mite she 
 gave ? I often wonder. ' ' 
 
 The rector took the five-dollar note, and said : 
 
 "A gift thanks the giver, they say in Syria; and 
 what an interesting thought about the widow 's mite ! 
 Perhaps it had been given to her. Ah, well, I seem 
 always to get what I want. ' ' 
 
 "One moment, Mr. Knellwood," she said, as they 
 both rose; "you must let me call you Father. It 
 makes possible so much that otherwise but you 
 understand. ' ' 
 
 "I shall hope to do so." He bowed slightly, a 
 little on guard, and for that reason the more cour- 
 teous. 
 
 "May I ask that what I am about to say be con- 
 / sidered as a confidence? I do not mean that the 
 knowledge may not be used but but that Oh! 
 I am so troubled ! It is about my friend, Katherine 
 Morrow. The girl has become very dear to my child- 
 less life." Mr. Knellwood 's hand went up to the 
 cross on his broad chest, and then, dropping it, fell 
 to buttoning a neglected button of his long coat. 
 
 "Pray go on," he said. Then Mrs. Hunter felt 
 secure, and, speaking with well-acted embarrass- 
 ment, said: 
 
 "If you are Katherine 's confessor" (she knew he 
 had been) "you must, as the friend of her soul, feel 
 v as I do that this dear child is in some danger of 
 giving her heart to a man without distinct beliefs, 
 to one to whom all that we hold dearest is not 
 what it is to us to you to me."
 
 140 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Do you mean Sydney Archer?" he said, faintly. 
 
 "Yes," she said, surprised at his directness. 
 
 "But," and he straightened himself, seeing with 
 honest scorn a temptation in his path, "I think you 
 are mistaken as to his opinions." 
 
 "I may be; but Kitty, who spoke of it, was her- 
 self shocked. Perhaps in my spiritual distress I 
 have done wrong, but I thought that if some one 
 if you, her confessor, could add your warning to aid 
 the small influence I possess Oh, Father Knell - 
 wood, it is so hard to do right to be sure one is 
 right." 
 
 "That is true for all of us. We can only prayer- 
 fully consider a course of action and then do as 
 seems right. God asks no more of us. ' ' 
 
 "Thank you. I did fear so much that you might 
 not understand me. ' ' 
 
 "What you have said to me is a very grave mat- 
 ter. I suspect that both you and Miss Morrow are 
 wrong as to Dr. Archer's opinions. But no matter 
 what they are, I can do nothing, and my advice to 
 you, if you asked it, would be to let the matter drop 
 I said if you asked my advice." 
 
 " I do, I do indeed. That is why I spoke. ' ' 
 
 "Then, have you asked for wiser guidance than 
 mine? Have you done this?" 
 
 Something out of the past, out of her youth, made 
 her hesitate to lie about prayer. She said : 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then you know what to do. With Miss Kath- 
 erine you can, of course, talk freely. You may be 
 doing her and Dr. Archer incalculable wrong."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 141 
 
 "I am glad to know that I may be mistaken, but, 
 in any case, I shall never forget your kindness. ' ' 
 
 He had done what he thought right and said what 
 he thought true. Now he stood nervously grasping 
 the cross he wore. 
 
 "I ought to say further, Mrs. Hunter, that on my 
 return, in rearranging our parish work, it has ap- 
 peared better to assign the confessions of some of 
 my parishioners to an older man than I." Here he 
 felt that he was needlessly self-explanatory. 
 
 "He is hard hit," thought Mrs. Hunter. "He is 
 afraid of her." 
 
 "Pardon me. You are no doubt right. I abide 
 by your decision," she said meekly, "and I do hope 
 you feel that in speaking to you I could have but 
 one motive. ' ' He smiled pleasantly. 
 
 "Rest easy as to that." Indeed, he was a man 
 who thought ill of no one and moved with chari- 
 table tenderness of explanation amid the crimes and 
 follies of the poor and the rich. 
 
 He went away, saying to himself: 
 / "Here is a good woman ignorantly tempting me. 
 Oh, let her marry whom she will!" and then the 
 fair face and figure filled his soul with yearning, 
 and he thought of a home and Kitty, of children, 
 and how he loved them. He went up the street, 
 tramping down the gathering snow and praying as 
 he went. He was the victim of a self-made, revoca- 
 ble vow, and the strong, natural man was in revolt. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter waited, smiling as she looked out of 
 the window after him. She had no entire faith in 
 any one.
 
 142 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "If," she said, "he does something speaks to 
 that other priest it will do no harm. If he does 
 not? Well, I know now that he loves the girl. He 
 is the very person to attract her, and he will never 
 marry her never; but he will kill the doctor's 
 chance." She was a little in doubt as to the wis- 
 dom of what she had said to the rector; but there 
 had been in her interview a flavor of risk and that 
 sense of adventure which never failed to give her 
 pleasure. 
 
 Kitty did not come in and Mrs. Hunter went 
 home to the company of a French novel. ^/
 
 XVI 
 
 |IME went its lavish way. The weeks 
 passed and Mrs. Hunter gradually be- 
 came more and more important to John 
 Fairthorne. Several things helped her. 
 Mary disliked the uninteresting work 
 of mere cataloguing, but did it at need with the hon- 
 esty and dutifulness she brought to all the tasks of 
 life. Kitty hated and did not do it in fact, was 
 incompetent. She caressed and kissed her uncle and 
 slyly fled. Mrs. Hunter relieved them both. 
 
 One day Dr. Archer came in and found Mrs. Hun- 
 ter reading aloud to Mr. Fairthorne Landor's "Im- 
 aginary Conversations." She read well, but not 
 better than Mary, who liked to read to him because 
 he usually fancied the English classics and on his 
 better days was interestingly critical. Archer was a 
 little surprised. He paused a moment, pleased with 
 the voice as it rose and fell. 
 
 "You read admirably," he said. Mrs. Hunter 
 started a little. 
 
 "Thank you. Let me detain you a moment as 
 you go out. ' ' 
 
 When this occurred, she said to him in the draw- 
 ing-room : 
 
 "Mr. Fairthorne 's left arm has been twitching all 
 day." 
 
 143
 
 144 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Yes, I noticed it an old symptom. Where is 
 Miss Mary?" 
 
 "She is lying down." 
 
 "Not ill?" he said, quickly. 
 
 "I do not know. She has sent for Dr. Soper. 
 Rather an old-fashioned kind of M.D., I fancy." 
 Archer contributed no comment and she went on: 
 "If you will kindly tell me what you want done, I 
 will see to it until Miss Mary can do so. Miss Kath- 
 erine is out. Is Mr. Fairthorne very ill? Is he in 
 any danger?" The service she was performing 
 Archer had of course observed. The question seemed 
 natural. 
 
 "He may live a year or two, or die at any hour. 
 The family know what is my opinion." 
 
 "He has been very good to me. I shall be at 
 your orders. ' ' 
 
 Archer gave her the needed directions, which in- 
 volved some changes. She pleased him by her accu- 
 racy and the intelligence of her questions and he 
 went away well satisfied. Nor was Mrs. Hunter less 
 pleased. To do full justice to these new duties made 
 it needful that she should return in the afternoons. 
 What could have been more lucky! She was not 
 eager for Miss Fairthorne 's recovery. 
 
 But no human sky is long cloudless. There was 
 Lionel. She was thinking of him when, returning, 
 she found Mr. Fairthorne dozing over a book. She 
 sat down as if to work, but really for a chance to 
 consider tranquilly certain too urgent questions. 
 Usually, when new to a place, Lionel was sure to be 
 for a little while attentive to his work, and to make
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 145 
 
 no serious claims upon her purse ; but now, although 
 he had been only a few weeks in Grace's office, he 
 was every few days asking her for loans which were 
 such only in name. Worse still, she had received a 
 curt note from the banker's partner stating that 
 ^ Lionel was so unpunctual that he must either reform 
 or leave the office. 
 
 As if to emphasize her annoyance, Craig was 
 bored, tired of the little ladies, and was picking up 
 idle company, for want of better, as he said. Mrs. 
 Hunter felt him to be a sad encumbrance, but he 
 was the one thing on earth she loved better than she 
 loved Lucretia Hunter. 
 
 She put him aside for the time, and turned over 
 the autographs. She had been well educated, and, 
 more lazy in body than in mind, had found in her 
 present surroundings a great deal that honestly in- 
 terested and much about which she pretended inter- 
 est. Above all, there were ease and luxury. Just 
 now a portfolio of musical autographs attracted her. 
 She looked them over carelessly. There were scores 
 or portions of them by Schubert, Haydn, Mendels- 
 sohn, a song with Beethoven's setting. Each was in 
 a cover with the date and place of purchase and the 
 price. She read their values with amazement and 
 with a sudden sense of temptation and an idea that 
 here, in case of need, might be a valuable resource. 
 The risk would be small. She was capable of long- 
 continued use of evil means, but had never stolen, 
 and had a certain fear of definite crime. Hearing 
 some one on the stair, she closed the portfolio and 
 went down. 
 
 10
 
 146 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 It was Dr. Soper, who had been to visit Miss Fair- 
 thorne. 
 
 "Dr. Soper, I believe. I am Mrs. Hunter, Mr. 
 Fairthorne's She hesitated and added: "Mr. 
 Fairthorne's amanuensis. Since Miss Mary's indis- 
 position I have been taking care of her uncle. For 
 three days now she has been off duty and her uncle 
 desires me to ask when she will be up." 
 
 "Oh, very soon." 
 
 ' ' And will she then be fit to read to him, write his 
 letters, attend to his diet? You understand. He 
 exacts a good deal. ' ' 
 
 He seemed to reflect, and then said : 
 
 "That is another matter, quite. I shall think 
 of it. There is no haste. Perhaps, later, a brief 
 absence might be desirable before, I may say, re- 
 suming her duties. ' ' 
 
 "What an admirable counselor!" thought Lucre- 
 tia. "May I ask what is wrong with Miss Fair- 
 thorne ? ' ' 
 
 He had the long-since acquired affectation of 
 seeming to pause for reflection before replying to 
 even a simple question. Mrs. Hunter was keenly 
 considering him. 
 
 Dr. Soper was fat, rosy, gray of head, and wore 
 the old-fashioned side whisker. He had a look of 
 mellow prosperity. Mentally, he was competent 
 enough when alone in a case, but was apt to yield 
 to a colleague's opinion, and, in the face of a pa- 
 tient's obstinacy, to give way or modify an un- 
 pleasant order. Perhaps this contributed with many 
 kindly qualities to make him popular. Unfortu-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 147 
 
 nately, the confusing in-rush of novel ideas and new 
 medicines found him unable to select or to sit in 
 judgment, so that he lazily accepted and hopelessly 
 failed to digest or assimilate the new knowledge. It 
 was Dr. Soper's belief that he must always be up to 
 the hour, and he liked to say so. Dimly conscious 
 of indecisiveness, he disliked consultations. 
 
 He stood handling the bunch of seals on his watch- 
 guard as he answered her very simple request to 
 know what was wrong with his patient. 
 
 "My dear Mary," he replied, "is a little tired 
 overworked; perhaps, too, a touch of the prevalent 
 influenza. Nothing worse. ' ' Mary was never tired, 
 but this doctor said every one was overworked. 
 
 "Miss Katherine," he continued, "remarked that 
 you thought Atlantic City might be advisable when 
 her cousin was better." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I may have said so. A very good idea, 
 but it was Miss Katherine who suggested it, not I. 
 I never meddle." 
 
 "Well, I will bear it in mind. Good morning; 
 you do not look as if you would ever profit my pro- 
 fession, Mrs. Hunter." 
 
 "Ah, Dr. Soper, I am glad you reminded me. I 
 was about to ask if you thought that in insomnia 
 small doses of chloral would do harm." 
 
 "No, no; but certainly only under advice." 
 
 "And are not bromides safer?" 
 
 "Oh, decidedly! You are quite safe with them." 
 
 "I am often sleepless. Some time I must ask you 
 to advise me at length. ' ' 
 
 ' ' With pleasure. Fine woman ! " he murmured.
 
 148 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "What a medical Polonius!" laughed Mrs. Hun- 
 ter. "A nice old weather-cock. He may answer in 
 case of need." 
 
 Mary was with difficulty kept in bed for three or 
 four days. When, in Dr. Soper's opinion, she was 
 able to move about he advised with unusual empha- 
 sis a fortnight's rest by the sea. To the surprise of 
 Mrs. Hunter, Mary eagerly assented. Kitty gener- 
 ously insisted that she should take with her the maid 
 whose service they were supposed to share equally. 
 When, also, her uncle bade her good-bye and gave 
 her a very ample check and hoped she would enjoy 
 the ocean, Mary felt that every one was good to 
 her, and spent no thought upon the causes of such 
 unanimous helpfulness. 
 
 In fact, she was glad to go. Kitty's too evident 
 transgressions troubled her and she saw with regret 
 that she, who alone of the family had been able to 
 influence the wilful beauty, was losing control; so 
 that now it was Mrs. Hunter to whom Kitty referred 
 the many small questions of a petty existence. More- 
 over, Mrs. Hunter was becoming more essential to 
 John Fairthorne than was pleasant to his niece, who 
 found awkward the changing relations which were 
 fast developing. Feeling the strain of it all, she 
 confessed her own inability to supply remedies. 
 Then, too, there was a more intimate question which 
 at times urgently asked the hospitality of attention. 
 
 She went away, glad of escape. When Madge 
 promised that in a day or two she should have Jack 
 as company she was altogether delighted. She left 
 without the slightest suspicion that she owed her
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 149 
 
 holiday to Mrs. Hunter's provident care and to that 
 lady's desire to be alone for a season with Mr. Fair- 
 thorne and Kitty. 
 
 When Miss Morrow received her rector's note, 
 stating that he could no longer act as her spiritual 
 director, she promptly declared to Mrs. Hunter that 
 she had of late become doubtful as to the wisdom of 
 confession, and could not consent to be coldly trans- 
 ferred to some one who would not comprehend her 
 spiritual wants. Mrs. Hunter, on the whole, agreed 
 with her. Kitty ceased to go to confession, but as- 
 siduously attended Mr. Knellwood's services at St. 
 Agnes 's. 
 
 For a week after her sister's departure Margaret 
 made it a daily duty to visit her uncle, but very 
 soon found that there was little for her to do. Mrs. 
 Hunter usually left her free to talk with Mr. Fair- 
 thorne, but he was apt, shortly, to ask: 
 
 ''Where is Mrs. Hunter?" 
 
 Margaret began to feel uneasy at this growing 
 attachment. 
 
 "It is so sudden," she thought, but, being a person 
 who prided herself on not acting without reasons, 
 she was not embarrassed, like Mary, by the predic- 
 tions of an active imagination. 
 
 The absolute control Mrs. Hunter was gaining 
 over Kitty was also becoming too obvious to escape 
 Margaret's notice. She did not like it, and liked 
 it less because she did not understand it. It an- 
 noyed her, though not as it did Mary, because, un- 
 like her sister, she had neither affection nor respect 
 for Katherine Morrow.
 
 150 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 A larger experience might have explained the 
 cause of Lucretia's conquest of a girl so difficult to 
 attach. It was due in part, as has been said, to her 
 power to feed Kitty's vanity with very gross flattery, 
 and in part to that singular influence of an older 
 woman over one younger, which has caused much 
 mischief and is difficult to ^xpjam. 
 
 Nearly a fortnight had gone by, and one morning 
 just before Mary was expected to return Mr. Fair- 
 thorne said to Margaret : 
 
 "I am going to secure Mrs. Hunter's full services 
 as my secretary. Mary is absent." 
 
 "But she is coming home at once." 
 
 "Yes, I know, I know," he replied, irritably. 
 "Kitty is valueless. I must get more efficient help." 
 
 "You must do as you think best," she said, coldly. 
 "Mary will be hurt, and is by no means valueless." 
 
 He made no comment on this, but said : 
 
 "I want you to ask Mrs. Hunter to your house, 
 my dear. ' ' 
 
 Margaret was annoyed. 
 
 "My dear uncle," she said, "of course what you 
 want I will do. You know that both Mary and I 
 try in all ways to carry out your wishes. But we 
 know nothing of this woman, except that suddenly 
 you announce her as your secretary. She is simply 
 a clever woman Kitty has picked up, and whom she 
 pesters me to present to our friends." Margaret 
 spoke with unusual heat. She meant to yield, but not 
 until she had had her say. She was surprised that 
 her uncle did not show any sign of the anger which 
 contradictory objections to his will were pretty sure
 
 CIBCUMSTANOE 151 
 
 to awaken. Having, however, been well schooled, he 
 replied quietly and with but slight impatience in 
 his tone: 
 
 "My dear Margaret, I have long wanted more 
 regular help. I hoped to relieve Mary. She has 
 made no complaint. So much for the secretary, and 
 now let me say I have done my duty by you two 
 girls and your estates. I never have asked of you 
 a favor. Now I do, and you say no." 
 
 "I did not say no." 
 
 "Well, you made it plain enough." He was los- 
 ing his temper. She looked at the excited old man, 
 with his handsome, well-bred face, now irregularly 
 red, and saw the tremor of the left hand as it rapped 
 in a kind of spasm on the arm of his chair. She 
 was alarmed. 
 
 "My dear uncle, I will do anything you want." 
 
 ' ' I knew you would. Mary fights and argues and 
 contradicts me, and I am a broken old man and fail- 
 ing fast. ' ' To hear him plead weakness was strange. 
 As she again assured him of her willingness, the 
 servant said : 
 
 "Mr. Masters." Margaret rose. 
 
 "No, do not go yet. Harry has been away very 
 long. I suppose we shall soon hear more from him 
 about those coal-lands. When do you look for 
 him ? ' ' 
 
 She thought in about a week; that would be on 
 Monday, and Mary seemed to be enjoying Jack and 
 the sea. 
 
 She rose to speak to her old friend Masters, say- 
 ing gaily, as her uncle greeted him :
 
 152 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "What, no ducks at Currituck or the Island! I 
 hoped for a brace or two of canvasbacks. " 
 
 "It is no joking matter. It is getting to be seri- 
 ous. The ducks are disappearing. Some rascals in 
 Canada or Alaska are stealing the eggs for Lord 
 knows what!" 
 
 "You should represent the matter at Washington, 
 Tom, ' ' said Fairthorne, laughing. ' ' I foresee inter- 
 national complications. ' ' 
 
 "It is awful," said Tom. Madge sympathized, 
 and again rose to go. 
 
 "No, do not go, Madge. Sit down. How have 
 you been, Tom ? What do you want ? No one comes 
 here who does not want something." 
 
 "For shame!" cried Margaret. 
 
 "My wants are few," said Masters. "If I could 
 have another big war and decent cause for it, I 
 should be happy. As it is, I kill things and loll 
 about clubs. Don't look at me, Madge, with that 
 look of suggested duties. How are the brats?" 
 
 "Oh, well. Come in on Saturday, after dinner." 
 
 "One minute," he said, "and I will walk with 
 you. I want to ask Mr. Fairthorne a question. It 
 may concern you and Harry." 
 
 Then he went on to say that he had a moderate 
 amount of stock of the Republic Trust Company, 
 and thought he would like to ask Mr. Fairthorne if 
 it still enjoyed his confidence. He had heard, of 
 late, unpleasant rumors. There was nothing defi- 
 nite. Fairthorne had once been a shrewd adviser, 
 and, as often happens to the old, his keenness as to 
 business was rather increased by that fear of pov-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 153 
 
 erty which is one of the haunting apprehensions of 
 declining life. He said : 
 
 "Why not sell? Why risk the holding of your 
 stock?" 
 
 "But, by George, it pays ten per cent." 
 
 "Does it? I had forgotten that. You sold your 
 stock, Madge ? Harry is their counsel, I believe. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, yes, he is their counsel." 
 
 "And yet he sold? I hold a good deal of it my- 
 self. Harry ought to have told me." 
 
 "We wanted the money for the house. He did 
 not then distrust it." 
 
 "And does now?" said her uncle, quickly. 
 "Where is my property book? Call Mrs. Hunter, 
 Madge." 
 
 "Cannot I find it, Uncle John?" 
 
 "Call Mrs. Hunter." When she appeared, he 
 asked her to bring the book with a schedule of per- 
 sonal property. She said: "Yes, the red cover," 
 and promptly set it on the table. Madge sat still, 
 confounded. He usually kept these books locked up 
 and rather jealously guarded from other eyes than 
 his own. 
 
 "Turn to the stock index and find the Eepublic 
 Trust stock. ' ' Madge watched her, as she seemed in 
 doubt and unable to find it. At last she said as much. 
 
 "Can't find the index!" he cried. "You made it 
 a week ago." 
 
 It was found at last. He looked at the page and 
 said: "It stood well when I bought it. You had 
 better ask Harry Swanwick or one of the directors. 
 Who are they?"
 
 154 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 When Tom named several of them, Mr. Fairthorne 
 said: 
 
 ' ' Oh, Grace ! Decent sort of fellow, I hear. Man- 
 age to see him; put it in business shape you 
 think of selling to reinvest. Ask what he advises. 
 Don't ask him directly whether this stock is good to 
 hold as a permanent investment. As a director, he 
 might be disinclined to advise. Put it the other 
 way." Tom was amused at a form of over-shrewd- 
 ness he himself did not possess and was little likely 
 to utilize, being as straightforward a man in his way 
 as the able master of finance to whom he was advised 
 to apply. 
 
 Tom rose, thanking Mr. Fairthorne, to whom, as 
 his father's executor, he was apt to turn for counsel. 
 In fact, he had made the investment in question long 
 before by Mr. Fairthorne 's advice, but was careful 
 not to say so. 
 
 As he went down the stairway with Mrs. Swan- 
 wick he said : 
 
 "Has your uncle much of that stock?" 
 
 "I do not know. He is very secretive as to all 
 his property. Harry does not know. Uncle often 
 asks Harry's advice as to affairs, but he never men- 
 tions amounts." 
 
 "This Mrs. Hunter appears to know," said Tom, 
 with a queer, half -puzzled look made up of a mild 
 frown and a smile. 
 
 "Yes, so it seems." 
 
 "What is she doing here, Madge?" 
 
 "She is my uncle's secretary." 
 
 ' ' Indeed ! I should have chosen a man were I you, 
 or a woman with a worse figure."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 155 
 
 "I did not choose her." 
 
 "I fancy she chose herself, Madge." 
 
 ' ' That is too true, Tom. Wait a minute. I have 
 to ask her to my house. I promised my uncle, I 
 suppose I must do it. ' ' 
 
 "Ask me, too. She is very amusing." 
 
 "Well, that is as may be. My uncle wants me to 
 ask her. I could not refuse." 
 
 "Refuse! Why should you, Madge? She went 
 everywhere in Newport and was really liked in 
 Boston. ' ' 
 
 "Newport is not my house. Well, no matter. 
 Wait a minute." Margaret went back to the li- 
 brary. Mrs. Hunter, standing beside Mr. Fair- 
 thorne, was holding his hand and talking. Madge 
 caught a phrase or two, as Mrs. Hunter said : 
 
 "I am afraid, sir, you will hardly be as comfort- 
 able when Mary comes home." 
 
 "But you won't leave me " 
 
 "Mary!" murmured Mrs. Swan wick. 
 
 Lucretia moved in haste, taken by surprise as Mar- 
 garet entered. Mrs. Swanwick was acquiring dis- 
 tinct enough reasons for not liking the secretary. 
 Nevertheless, she had no mind to disoblige her uncle. 
 
 "I came back, Mrs. Hunter, to ask you to come 
 in on Saturday night, after nine, please. I am usu- 
 ally at home on that evening, and this time you will 
 be sure to find a few pleasant people. It is quite 
 informal. ' ' Having resolved to please her uncle, she 
 delivered her invitation with as much cordiality as 
 she could command. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter would have the "utmost pleasure." 
 She was a little embarrassed, wondering if she had
 
 156 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 been overheard. She swiftly concluded, from Mrs. 
 i Swanwick's pleasant ease of manner, that she had 
 ^ not. It is never well to underrate other actresses. 
 
 Margaret went down-stairs furious, and Mrs. Hun- 
 ter had an enemy added and one neither to be de- 
 spised nor readily dealt with. 
 
 "Do not forget me on Saturday night, Tom. 
 Harry may not be at home, but Mary will be, so she 
 writes me." She left him at his club, and walked on 
 to her own house, deep in thought. 
 
 ' ' Mary, indeed ! What insolence ! ' '
 
 XVII 
 
 (HE next morning Mrs. Hunter com- 
 plained that there were evil odors 
 about the house, and Kitty was easily 
 persuaded that a slight leakage of gas 
 was really some defect in the drainage. 
 John Fairthorne, always anxious about health, sent 
 at once for Archer, who naturally prescribed a resort 
 to the plumber. Then Mrs. Hunter saw Dr. Soper, 
 and he, in turn, advised Mary by letter to remain 
 away until the house was set in order. Mary re- 
 plied that she was tired of the sea and would go for 
 a week to her sister 's, which suited Mrs. Hunter very 
 nearly as well. 
 
 One morning, a day or two before her cousin's ex- 
 pected return, Kitty complained that she needed 
 exercise, and that Dr. Soper had said that she ought 
 to ride. Mrs. Hunter asked why, as Miss Mary was 
 away, she did not use her horse. Kitty, who rode 
 in summer a quiet little mare, replied that her cousin 
 would not like it. 
 
 "My dear," said Lucretia, "she really should be 
 obliged to you. The horse ought to be exercised 
 more." Kitty, over persuaded, tried it twice, and 
 then gave it up in terror, and none too soon, for 
 Mary telegraphed Madge on Saturday morning that 
 157
 
 168 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 she would return that evening and remain with them 
 a week. She had concluded that she had had quite 
 >/ enough of the ugliest seaside town on the coast. 
 
 The day after Mr. Masters saw John Fairthorne 
 he called on Mr. Grace, just at the close of his busi- 
 ness hours, and sent in his card. As he passed into 
 the banker's office Lionel Craig came out. He was 
 flushed and angry, Mr. Grace having told him that 
 his books were badly kept, and that but for the fact 
 that he had promised his sister to give him another 
 trial he would have at once dismissed him. Craig 
 was more hurt than helped by the warning, but for 
 a time it proved effectual. The well-dressed, well- 
 built gentleman glanced with approval at the figure, 
 and with surprise at the dress, of the clerk, and won- 
 dered whom he resembled. 
 
 Mr. Grace, who had long had a club acquaintance 
 with Masters, and knew very well who he was, said : 
 
 "Sit down. How can I oblige you?" 
 
 Quite neglecting Fairthorne 's advice, Tom said : 
 
 "I want to ask you, if I may, whether the Repub- 
 lic Trust stock is a safe investment, or should I sell 
 and invest in something else? Kindly consider this 
 as a matter of business." 
 
 The banker smiled. 
 
 "It is a rather uncommon form of question. Usu- 
 ally my upper clerks or juniors answer such ques- 
 tions or do not ; for, really, Mr. Masters, it is not 
 usual to give advice in the form you desire. If you 
 wish us to sell for you and to advise as to investment 
 we will do so. ' ' 
 
 Tom laughed.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 159 
 
 ''Suppose, sir, I ask if I shall invest in the Re- 
 public?" 
 
 Grace, much amused, replied : 
 
 "Mr. Masters, I was a director of the Trust. I 
 have lately resigned. I do not altogether like their 
 ways. I can give no advice at least, no direct 
 advice. ' ' 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 "And if you act on what I have said, kindly con- 
 sider what has passed here as absolutely confidential. 
 Can I further serve you ? No ? Well, you will find 
 Mr. Owens outside. I think you will sell your stock, ' ' 
 he added, smiling. 
 
 "I will," said Tom. Then he paused, and said: 
 
 "I have an old friend, Mr. John Fairthorne, who 
 holds, I suspect, a good deal of this stock." 
 
 "Then it is held by a man quite fit to take care 
 of himself. I have, Mr. Masters, a weakness for 
 you men who were deep in the war while I was 
 grubbing for dollars. It is one of the regrets of 
 my life that I was not in it. Generally, I should 
 have declined to answer in any shape. You are wise 
 enough to know that I did answer." 
 
 "Well," said Tom, "that is the first good I ever 
 got out of the war." 
 
 "Oh, no, Mr. Masters; you got a great deal be- 
 sides. By the way, is your friend Swanwick at home 
 yet?" He was well aware of their intimacy. "Mrs. 
 Swanwick expected him within a day or two. ' ' 
 
 " I do not know. ' ' 
 
 "I am going to Mrs. Swan wick's on Saturday 
 night," said Grace. It was irrelevant, but the
 
 160 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 banker was pleased to have been asked and liked to 
 speak of it. Tom, perfectly understanding him, 
 said: 
 
 " Before I go I want to say how much I thank 
 you." Grace smiled, pleased with himself and 
 Masters. 
 
 Tom sold his stock at no loss, as it was still far 
 over par, but falling and rising again, being, as a 
 rule, firmly held and long thought to be secure. 
 
 When Masters left, Mr. Grace asked to see his 
 partner. They talked gravely awhile, and then 
 Grace, left alone, walked up and down his office re- 
 flecting. At last he sat down and wrote : 
 
 " [Private.] 
 
 " DEAR SIR : You know that my dissatisfaction with the recent 
 management of your company caused me to resign my seat in 
 your board. I have excused myself, outside of it, as having too 
 many such offices. You know how frankly I urged on the finance 
 committee my utter disapproval of some of their Western in- 
 vestments. I need not further remind you of what more I said. 
 I am constantly hearing unpleasant rumors, and observe that 
 the stock is going down by degrees. We are, I think, in a bad 
 way just now, and for this reason I do not care to throw my 
 own large holding on the market. I greatly fear money 
 troubles in the spring. If you are in, or get into, real difficul- 
 ties, it will be needful to support so old and important an in- 
 stitution. Let me hear frankly and soon. Do not leave it 
 until help is useless. 
 
 "Yours truly, 
 
 " ROGER GRACE." 
 
 " To CYBCS THURSTON, ESQ." 
 
 He read it over and said to himself : 
 
 "That will answer. They will pull through if we
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 161 
 
 have no abrupt mischief in the Western banks." 
 Then he rang. 
 
 When the clerk appeared, he said: "Mr. Jones, 
 see that Mr. Thurston gets this letter as you go to 
 lunch. ' ' 
 
 Jones was just going out for his midday meal, and 
 walked up-town with Craig, to whom he said, as they 
 came near to the Trust office : "You run in and give 
 this to Mr. Thurston. See that he gets it. I am in 
 a hurry. See you at lunch. I guess it 's impor- 
 tant." 
 
 Craig replied, "All right," and his friend left 
 him. 
 
 Craig looked at the letter and felt that the closing 
 mucilage was still damp. He had a sudden and 
 childlike desire to see what was within. He knew, 
 as did others, that the brokers felt a little suspicious 
 as to this company. It might be useful to know. 
 Stocks were moving uneasily. He stepped aside 
 into another street and tried the envelope to see if 
 the adhesive paste had made it too secure. It opened 
 readily. He read it with dull interest, not seeing 
 that it was or could be of any value to him to know 
 its contents. 
 
 He found Mr. Thurston and delivered it, seeing, 
 although of a not very alert intelligence, that the 
 Trust's president was discomposed as he read and 
 reread the letter. "No, there was no answer." 
 
 When, that evening, he sat with his sister, who 
 was in high spirits and was glad of a cigarette, he 
 gaily related this exploit. Strange to say, it seri- 
 ously troubled her that he had opened the letter. 
 11
 
 162 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 She herself would have done so without the least 
 hesitation, but she wanted this man to be what she 
 was not, and scrupulously hid from him whatever 
 of actual wrong-doing she had put into her own life. 
 As they had usually lived apart, this had been easy. 
 
 ' ' Oh, Lionel ! ' ' she said. ' ' How could you do such 
 a thing?" That he should so calmly have confessed 
 it to her as rather a good joke on the banker seemed 
 to her acuteness evidence that Lionel believed she 
 would show no disapproval. Did he think that of 
 her? She wanted him to love her, to think well of 
 her, even to respect her. She was so severe that he 
 felt he had been a fool to tell her. He weakened, as 
 he always did under her hand, and at last promised, 
 as usual, all manner of good behavior. 
 
 After this they talked of the theaters, and finally 
 of Kitty. He had, of course, enjoyed his walk on 
 Sunday with his sister and Miss Katherine. When 
 he had gone, Mrs. Hunter sat down to think. So 
 far she had done well. She had become necessary to 
 Mr. Fairthorne ; Miss Fairthorne was out of the way 
 for a time ; Mrs. Swanwick had asked her to her 
 house. She was in a fair way to make mischief be- 
 tween Mary and Kitty Morrow. The doctor was in 
 her road, and for some reason was coldly civil and no 
 more. He had said that his orders must be carried 
 out, and Mrs. Hunter, who had ideas of her own as 
 to treatment, had been reminded most distinctly that 
 he was to be obeyed. He was altogether impervious 
 to flattery and neither to be cajoled nor bullied. Mrs. 
 Hunter lacked the talent for letting things alone. 
 She need not have interfered with Archer, but the
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 163 
 
 desire for petty rule was deeply set in her nature, 
 and made her incline to cross swords needlessly with 
 a man of whom she had better not have made a foe. 
 
 He had begun, soon after Miss Fairthorne left, to 
 feel continually that there was some interference, 
 some excuse for a failure to carry out orders; or if 
 he forbade the usual drive Mr. Fairthorne must have 
 misunderstood, because Mrs. Hunter had said that 
 was only in case the east wind continued. This 
 sense of a hostile atmosphere, of inexplicable and in- 
 tangible opposition, began to annoy Archer. Every 
 physician must, at some time, have been made to 
 feel as he now did, and few things are harder to bear. 
 
 As to Archer's intermittent attention to Kitty, 
 Mrs. Hunter was easy. He had but little leisure, 
 and she herself was well informed as to Kitty 's senti- 
 ments. The real peril was in the clergyman, of 
 whom, Mrs. Hunter observed, the girl, for some latent 
 cause, no longer spoke as Father Knellwood. 
 / "I must live in that house, ' ' thought Mrs. Hunter ; 
 "but how am I to manage it?" It would be pleas- 
 ant and save money for that endless drain, Lionel. 
 A dozen plans amused her leisure, as she sat smok- 
 ing cigarettes in her hotel chamber, with a petit 
 verre of cognac only one, for she was prudent and 
 sober as to some things. Of course, cigarettes would 
 have to go for the time, but, save for this, there was 
 comfort in the idea of a home in that luxurious 
 house. Her day-dreams were queer enough. If just 
 a trifle of something were to make Kitty ill, and she 
 would have no nurse save Lucretia, or if Mr. Fair- 
 thorne were to be worse well, just for a while. She
 
 164 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 had become used to living on the margin of serious 
 crime. 
 
 "Once in that house," she said, "I should stay." 
 
 Meanwhile she used her present advantages with 
 energetic industry. 
 
 While Mary was away she spent her mornings in 
 Fairthorne 's library, intelligently busy with the cat- 
 alogue, or when not so occupied suggestive, amusing, 
 with now and then a caressing touch, a soothing 
 hand. Well, something would turn up, or she must 
 make it turn up. She had the adventurer's belief in 
 her luck. Meanwhile she received from Fairthorne 
 seventy-five dollars a month. The contents of that 
 letter to Thurston occupied her busy brain for a few 
 minutes, as she recalled the fact that Mr. Fairthorne 
 was a large holder of the stock. Above all, was a 
 feeling of satisfaction in the tangle she was making. 
 She undressed and slept the sound sleep of whole- 
 some health. 
 
 The guests who chanced to appear on Saturday 
 nights at Mrs. Swan wick's were not always, or in- 
 deed generally, such as pleased Miss Morrow. She 
 rarely did what she did not want to do, and now, in 
 the afternoon, told Mrs. Hunter that the rides on 
 that brute of Mary's had left her stiff and sore. She 
 really could not go to Margaret's, and the horse was 
 lame and his back was sore as if that was any one's 
 fault. But what a row there would be ! Yes, Mrs. 
 Hunter thought there might be trouble, some people 
 were so selfish. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter did not mean to go alone to Mrs. 
 Swan wick's. She made no direct reply to Kitty's
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 165 
 
 statement of her bodily ills, but mentioned casually 
 that Mr. Knellwood would be disappointed, an infer- 
 ence which Kitty's vanity eagerly accepted. She 
 presently said: "If you would really like me to go 
 with you I will certainly try to do so ; but, dear me, 
 it is dull, and I am stiff from head to foot." 
 
 When, in the evening, Mr. Fairthorne's carriage 
 brought Mrs. Hunter from her hotel to the Fourth 
 Street house, she was not surprised to find Kitty in 
 her room and ready. It was one of the girl's errors 
 of taste to be rather over-dressed, and as she stood be- 
 fore her glass, Mrs. Hunter admired her white neck. 
 Kitty admired it no whit less and as she turned from 
 the glass, said with a sigh : "I do wish I could wear 
 Mary's pearls. She never has worn them, not once. 
 When she was going she asked me to have her box of 
 trinkets put in uncle's safe. I forgot all about it." 
 
 "Let me see them, dear." Kitty brought the box, 
 and taking a costly pearl necklace from its worn 
 morocco case placed it in Mrs. Hunter's hand. Lu- 
 cretia said : 
 
 "How beautiful they are, but they would not suit 
 Mary's complexion. I know where they belong," 
 and she clasped them around Kitty's neck, crying: 
 "Now they are where they ought to be. Oh, Kath- 
 erine, how they become you!" 
 
 "I really could n't, I could n't oh, I wish I 
 could ! Mary never lets me touch them. They were 
 Aunt Julia's, her mother's. Is n't it selfish? I 
 have often asked her to let me wear them. ' ' 
 
 "She will never know." 
 
 "Margaret would tell her, and if ever you saw
 
 168 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Mary Fairthorne angry, you would n't advise me to 
 wear her pearls." 
 
 "My dear child, if she saw you now she would 
 give you the pearls. After all, you lovely morsel, 
 they can't eat you alive. If I were a man I should 
 simply fall at your feet." 
 
 Kitty looked again in her glass, which told as 
 sweet a truth. 
 
 "Well," she said, "Mary is not at home, and" 
 
 "Yes, dear, and you can ask Mrs. Swan wick not 
 to tell." 
 
 "That is a good idea," said Kitty. The mirror 
 and Lucretia won for vanity the battle against fear. 
 
 "It will make a pleasant little fuss if the big 
 cousin ever hears," thought Mrs. Hunter, as they 
 drove to the Swan wicks'; "and of course Mrs. Swan- 
 wick will tell. I would, any one would. The girl 
 will never ask her not to mention it. What a lovely 
 fool she is ! "
 
 XVIII 
 
 [HILE this debate took place, and Kitty 
 was preening her feathers before the 
 cheval glass, too pleased to anticipate 
 disaster, Margaret was trying, in her 
 nursery, to get away from the "just 
 one more kiss" and the "do tuck me in, mudder." 
 "Ah," she said, hearing the front-door bell ring, 
 "that is Harry's ring." She ran down-stairs in 
 haste. He had been absent nearly a fortnight. It 
 was like her, amid the joy which set her heart to 
 throbbing, that she reflected on the individuality of 
 the pull on a bell. She dropped the train of thought 
 as her husband lifted the little woman and kissed 
 her. 
 
 "Do set me down, Harry," she cried, as the bell 
 rang again. "Oh, that must be Mary. I am sure 
 it is Mary. She is just from the seashore, Harry, 
 and is to be here a week. Is n 't it delightful ! " It 
 was a noble fib, for just then she would far rather 
 have been alone with her husband. 
 
 It was the travelers who entered. Jack had been 
 ordered home after a week's delightful digging in 
 the sand and the accumulation of a fortune in shells. 
 Mary, very tired of the hotel life, was happy to be 
 with her sister, and was made warmly welcome. She 
 167
 
 168 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 went at once up-stairs to her room to dress, Mar- 
 garet having said there were, as usual on Saturday 
 night, people coming. 
 
 Harry Swan wick threw himself into an easy-chair 
 in the library, and Madge, on a cushion at his feet, 
 rested an elbow on his knee. No, he was not tired, 
 and had had some kind of a dinner; but what a 
 bore to have people coming! Madge said it was 
 sorrowful, but that he had set Monday for his 
 return. 
 
 "Yes," he laughed, "that is so, but I had three 
 reasons for haste two up-stairs, and one here. Are 
 they asleep?" 
 
 "I fear not, dear. If you go up now my little 
 witch will be awake half the night." 
 
 He rose. 
 
 "No, no, please not," she said. 
 
 "Well, I must wait, I suppose." In little and 
 large things he was more governed than he knew. 
 At times the unsuspected taste for rule went be- 
 yond the line of wisdom, and his wife's interference 
 became too much for the comfortable, disorderly 
 ways of man. Once, when Mary had criticized her 
 sister, he had quoted something about intelligent 
 despotism and its value. Mary had replied that he 
 was not very clear, and he, in turn, that what he 
 meant was that his wife was generally right, even 
 when she bothered him which was true. 
 
 "Now," she said, "you must have ever so much 
 to tell me. Your letters were exasperatingly short, 
 and as for home news, I have a horrid budget with 
 which I did not want to distract you. Oh, nothing
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 169 
 
 serious. But first about your cases. I saw by the 
 law reports that you won both. About the coal- 
 lands I was not so sure. Uncle will like to hear." 
 
 "Yes, Madge," he said, "you were right about 
 the bridge case. The point you made concerning 
 the tolls and who received them and the date of 
 their cessation was difficult to prove, but when I 
 found the former toll-keeper his evidence settled it." 
 
 Madge's face lit up. 
 
 "It was a great triumph for you, and against a 
 man like Leslie." 
 
 "Yes; he congratulated me later, and so did the 
 judge, and when I told them you had suggested the 
 point they were rather amazed, and Leslie said you 
 ought to have half the fee. It will be large quite 
 five thousand." 
 
 "Oh, Harry! You ought not to have mentioned 
 me. I really did not ' ' 
 
 "Did you not! I am not entirely and always the 
 fool of love. You shall have all of the fee. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I would rather have a kiss. " It is probable that 
 she got it. "And the coal suit? I had nothing to 
 do with that," she cried, gladly. 
 
 "Perhaps not, and for a chamber counsel your 
 fees are moderate. I won it easily, but the lands 
 need care and Luke Pilgrim ought to be sent down 
 there at once he or some other mining engineer. 
 Your uncle is being robbed right and left. I found 
 one of my old rebel friends on the Kanawha, and 
 put him in charge ; but, really, Mr. Fairthorne must 
 be getting very inert and it is not like him to let 
 things go as he has done."
 
 170 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Madge became grave. 
 
 "Well," he said, "what is it?" He knew her 
 ways. "You have something to tell me." 
 
 "Ye-es, Uncle John is slowly failing. He is more 
 irritable-" 
 
 "More!" he cried. 
 
 "Yes; it shows in many ways. He is becoming a 
 little careless about his dress, and that for him is 
 Dr. Archer says it is really a bad sign. He has 
 days when he is just as clever and cynical and pessi- 
 mistic as ever, but it does n't last. His love of 
 method has become a sort of mania. ' ' 
 
 "Well, all this, Madge, is more or less an old 
 story." 
 
 "Yes, I know that; but the change of late is very 
 marked. He is feebler, and sleeps more in the day- 
 time. ' ' 
 
 "But he is nearly eighty, Madge. Is that all?" 
 
 "No, it is not all. That Mrs. Hunter, whom our 
 silly mischief, Kitty, picked up I do not know where, 
 has got more and more of control over the girl, and 
 now she has contrived to make herself apparently in- 
 dispensable to Uncle John. She is there every day, 
 all day, and she calls herself his secretary. Prob- 
 ablyoh, of course, he pays her." 
 
 "Well, that ought to greatly relieve Mary and 
 Kitty." 
 
 "Kitty relieve Kitty! But Mary was being by 
 degrees set aside being set aside before you left. 
 And since Mary has been absent Mrs. Hunter seems 
 to have completely taken her place. Worst of all, 
 this woman sits and holds his hand, and really,
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 171 
 
 Harry, in the last month she has seemed essential to 
 his comfort. You know how he craves attention and 
 flattery and the woman is handsome and intelli- 
 gent." Then she mentioned the fact of his asking 
 Mrs. Hunter to look over his schedule of property 
 when Masters was present. 
 
 Harry whistled low. For the first time her ac- 
 count disturbed him. He knew that Fairthorne had 
 always been secretive about his affairs and kept his 
 own accounts. He had often urged him to have 
 some secretarial aid, but always in vain. Fairthorne 
 said it was a needless expense. He had all his life 
 been penny saving and dollar lavish, hesitating at 
 nothing where a book or an autograph was to be had ; 
 a complex nature, now undergoing the radical 
 changes caused by age, which strengthens some hab- 
 its and weakens others. 
 
 "What you tell me," said Harry, "is serious. Is 
 it money or ease she is after, or does she want to 
 trap this old man into marriage? Such cases have 
 been. I must talk to Archer." 
 
 "Marriage! I never thought of that. That is 
 awful. Now, run and dress ; I must go down-stairs. 
 Ah, there is the bell." 
 
 "Hang the people!" he said. 
 
 "Be civil to her, Harry. My uncle has made me 
 ask her here I mean Mrs. Hunter." 
 
 "Of course, Madge." 
 
 Margaret had made up her mind that she would be 
 gracious to Mrs. Hunter, and would also talk to 
 Mary as to the wisdom of prudently dealing with 
 a situation the peril of which she saw better than
 
 172 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 did her sister. The girls were both of them pos- 
 sessed of moderate fortunes, and until of late Mar- 
 garet had found it needful to live with care, and to 
 remind her husband, who was apt to be now and 
 then extravagant, as he had been about her ruby 
 ring, that what John Fairthorne might do with his 
 very large estate no one could say. Indeed, once, in 
 a moment of irritability, he had said he would leave 
 it all to Jack, who must take his name and arms. 
 Harry had told him that that was un-American non- 
 sense, and the old man had sworn outrageously that 
 he would do as he blank pleased. 
 
 Soon after Margaret entered the parlor Mr. Knell- 
 wood appeared. He had a gentle gravity of manner 
 which went well with his large proportions. He sat 
 down with discreet care as to his chair. Madge, who 
 respected him and rather fancied people who held 
 distinct opinions, wondered, like Mary, why she did 
 not like him better. She desired always to be able 
 to give reasons for her attachments, and this man 
 was of the best. He never spoke of things profes- 
 sional unless led by others to do so. He very hon- 
 estly believed that his increasing love for needlessly 
 added forms and ceremonial had a purely historical 
 and logical foundation, not realizing that emotion- 
 ality and taste for the mystical were controlling his 
 opinions. Few who knew him only in his church 
 ritual, or among the poor who loved him, would have 
 supposed that he would have instantly turned to 
 look at Madge's old Dresden china. He amazed her 
 by his criticism of the Dresden, and by his know- 
 ledge of the marks of her old Delft plates.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 173 
 
 When, after service as a war chaplain, he took to 
 improving the ritual and to a life among the poor, 
 he sold his father's collection and turned himself and 
 his income to more serious uses. An old Wedge- 
 wood plaque of Franklin, given by the philosopher 
 to the beauty, Tacy Lennox, attracted him, and he 
 was talking agreeably of the great man when Tom 
 Masters came in. The men shook hands. 
 
 "I do not see you as often as in the old war days, 
 chaplain. ' ' 
 
 "I am glad to forget them, Masters. But not," 
 he added, "my old army friends." He rarely spoke 
 of the war. It was a dream of horror, of blood, 
 griefs, wickedness. The service had been a painful 
 duty admirably done. 
 
 "I," said Masters, "think of the war with regret. 
 It is all I was ever fit for. ' ' 
 
 "There is a place for you, though you may not 
 have found it," said Knellwood, as Harry entered 
 and fell into chat with the ex-chaplain. 
 
 "Sit down, Tom, and amuse me," Madge said. 
 "Is n't your chaplain handsome? I wish I liked 
 him better." 
 
 "Not like him! Ah, we called him the reverend 
 colonel. He was always close to the rear of the 
 regiment in a fight ready to help the fellows that 
 were hit, or to keep the men up to it when they 
 got rattled. If there was a break in the line he 
 was sure to be in it, and good gracious, Madge, you 
 can't imagine how splendid he looked when he for- 
 got that his business was peace. ' ' 
 
 "He is two men, I suppose."
 
 174 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Yes, most of us are." 
 
 "Tell me more of him. You know Harry never 
 talks to me of the war, and I like war- talk. ' ' 
 
 "The chaplain and I were with the Forty-fifth at 
 Cedar Creek when the rebs broke our line. The 
 Ninth Vermont lost and recaptured their colors 
 three times. It was a bloody mob fight, and what 
 part the chaplain took he does not like to hear. 
 That night, after Phil Sheridan won his big fight 
 and we had had our turn, some one chaffed the chap- 
 lain, and declared he swore and was in the thick of 
 that fight for the colors." 
 
 "Swore and did he really?" 
 
 "I do not know. I hardly think he could even 
 have remembered what he said or did. Certainly he 
 was in the fight, and repented so painfully that we 
 never spoke of it again. ' ' 
 
 "I think I shall like him better," said Madge. 
 "Those were horrible and splendid days." 
 
 "And are over, alas!" 
 
 ' ' Oh, Tom, don 't say that ! Ah, here are Kitty and 
 Mrs. Hunter. Oh, and Mr. Grace. How good of 
 you to come early. Mrs. Hunter, may I present Mr. 
 Masters? Ah, I forgot; you know him." Kitty 
 looked about her, uneasily conscious of the pearls, 
 and joined Harry, who by and by left her with 
 Knellwood, and, a little curious, went to sit with 
 Tom Masters and the new secretary. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter, dressed in black satin and lace, was 
 at her best. 
 
 "A striking looking, well-preserved woman," 
 thought Harry. He was, like most of us, unobser-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 175 
 
 vant of the features of his kind. Now he was 
 more watchful. No, there was no rouge, and the 
 peculiarity of the eye was that the whole of the 
 large, dark iris was visible, and not, as is common, 
 partly hidden by the lids. It was strange and not 
 quite pleasant. She dropped the gay talk about 
 Newport and people, and said: 
 
 "Miss Morrow tells me you have been absent, 
 Mr. Swanwick, arguing cases. You are greatly to 
 be envied." 
 
 "You would not envy me if you had had to live 
 two weeks in the hotels of West Virginia. Hog and 
 hominy and soda-raised, sour bread, sour women, 
 and sour children." 
 
 "Ah, but to have your training and work, and to 
 \/ see results. If a woman is ever so able, what is 
 there she can do? She can't even kill things, Mr. 
 Masters." 
 
 "Well, she can always get married," said Tom, 
 lightly. 
 
 "Can she, indeed?" she cried, laughing. "And 
 you, Mr. Masters, who were complaining to me that 
 life had left you only ducks, grouse, and tarpon, 
 why not try your own remedy?" 
 
 "Thank you. Not I. What physician does that ?" 
 
 "If I were a man I should go mad over Miss 
 Morrow. How winning she is!" 
 
 Tom looked at the damsel in question, as perhaps 
 he was meant to do. The shot had gone home. Lu- 
 cretia had inexplicable satisfaction in stinging peo- 
 ple and how hard he had been hit by Kitty 's rejection 
 Mrs. Hunter guessed. Tom said, quietly :
 
 176 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Miss Morrow would trouble the prayers of a 
 saint." In a far corner, she was just then engaged 
 in this very same business and was reporting to 
 Mr. Knellwood the contents of a letter from a friend 
 who had married a clergyman and was settled near 
 Lenox. 
 
 "And now, Mr. Knellwood" it was no longer 
 Father Knellwood "she says she is so glad to be 
 both useful and happy, and I am happy and not a 
 bit useful, except to uncle. Helen got her account 
 of her roses and her babies so mixed up. Do you 
 ever get mixed up ? I do. If ever I marry, it will 
 be a bishop. It is delightful to talk to you about 
 getting married, because you know you know you 
 are a priest and what Mrs. Hunter calls oh, I for- 
 get ! It was something out of St. Paul. ' ' 
 
 Cyril Knellwood knew that this child-woman was 
 silly. He felt, rather than thought, that she might 
 be insincere, and men said of her bitter things ; but a 
 vast tenderness welled up in the heart of the man 
 as he looked down at her. He answered, with his 
 usual gentleness: "I cannot think what verse of 
 St. Paul could apply to me." He might have 
 thought of more than one. 
 
 "I always do forget quotations," she said. "I 
 will ask Mrs. Hunter, and write to you." Kitty 
 was forever writing trivial notes. 
 
 "Do not trouble yourself." She looked up at 
 him with lucid blue eyes. 
 
 "How can you think it a trouble? I like to write 
 to you. Mrs. Hunter says it does so clear one 's head 
 to put one's thoughts on paper." Kitty was a dan-
 
 CIECUMSTANCB 177 
 
 gerous person. An indefinable lure was in all her 
 ways and movements, some note of sweetness in her 
 slight lingering over any tender word. She had 
 none of the chaste remoteness of her cousin Mary. 
 She always seemed near. Margaret once said, with 
 unusual savagery of criticism, that there was too 
 much physical charm about Kitty. The man felt it 
 as his look turned from the blue eyes. She leaned 
 toward him as she spoke of liking to write to him, 
 and added: ''But I do not like to write to every- 
 body, Mr. Knell wood." Then he said a strange 
 thing for him, and was instantly sorry to have done 
 it: "Miss Morrow, why do you no longer call me 
 Father?" 
 
 The girl's eyes fell. This beautiful, half -trained 
 animal was feeling the fatal power that lay for her 
 in the stalwart man beside her, in a physical being 
 as attractive in his way as she herself, and she was 
 troubled into unusual embarrassment of speech. 
 
 He had asked why she no longer called him Father. 
 Her head fell a little, as with slow affirmative move- 
 ment she murmured, slowly and distinctly: "Be- 
 cause I cannot. I cannot any any more." 
 
 Her meaning was plain. There were a dozen 
 things he might have said. He knew very well next 
 day what he should have said, but for the moment 
 Ms moral mechanisms were in confusion, and his 
 mind refused to assist him. He had been fool- 
 ish, wrong, impulsive. That was the first thought 
 which leaped to consciousness out of the vertigo of a 
 passion on the boundary of uncontrol. He rose ab- 
 ruptly. As he looked down at her, the girl's face, 
 12
 
 178 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 a moment before bent, regarded his set gaze. Her 
 eyes were full of tears. She said: "Do not go." 
 
 He made no reply, but quietly moved away. She 
 looked after him. 
 
 ' ' He will never come near me again, never. ' ' She 
 made a desperate effort to recover her self-command. 
 She saw the forms about her as if in a dream. She 
 heard voices, but knew not what was said. In a 
 moment she began to try to think of what had passed. 
 
 For the first time in her life a man had troubled 
 her, and, she knew, might trouble her again. Or 
 had she troubled herself? Yes, she had gone far, 
 and perhaps too soon. Was this man really unlike 
 other men? for Kitty regarded his well-known ad- 
 vocacy of celibacy as slie did the rest of what Mary 
 called his performances lavations, chasuble and 
 amice, the wafer and genuflections. In her mind, 
 beliefs and their ceremonial attendants were of equal 
 importance. Her own creed was the offspring of 
 habit and education and could hardly be said to 
 affect conduct. Margaret had once remarked that 
 Kitty's religion was thin. She shrank back into her 
 corner, and for a time was alone. 
 
 Mrs. Swanwick had urged Archer to bring Blount 
 to one of her Saturdays, promising that she would 
 take care of him. Archer, rather in doubt, had con- 
 sented. In their previous intercourse Mrs. Swan- 
 wick's tact and evident interest had quickly set 
 Blount at ease. She had been full of useful sym- 
 pathy and had begun to make him feel that intellect 
 and hard work obtain their triumphs more easily 
 when aided by qualities which Blount 's life and edu-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 179 
 
 cation had never taught him to value. He was, how- 
 ever, by nature an observer, and once assured of a 
 need was almost absurdly ready to imitate the ways 
 of these pleasant people. The process of assimila- 
 tion interested Margaret. 
 
 The young man had been somewhat unwilling to 
 face what he feared might be a large number of peo- 
 ple, but Archer, without more thought, had said: 
 
 "Nonsense ! Put on a white tie and a black coat. ' ' 
 Mrs. Swanwick, too, was not to be lightly disobeyed. 
 There would be two or three pleasant people. The 
 rest she did not speak of. 
 
 Blount entered the room in a white tie, which gave 
 evidence of having been with difficulty adjusted, a 
 black cutaway coat, and gray pantaloons. Dazed 
 for a moment and shy, he looked about him with a 
 sense of shock at the bare necks and arms, for three 
 or four women, having dined elsewhere, were in full 
 evening dress. 
 
 Seeing Blount enter, Mrs. Swanwick came for- 
 ward, and, after a moment of reassuring welcome, 
 looked about her. Observing that Knellwood had 
 left Kitty, she said, "This way, Mr. Blount," and 
 presented him to her cousin. 
 
 The young woman, still vexed and disturbed, 
 was glad of the company of a stranger, and said, 
 as he sat down : "I think we met at Miss Mark- 
 ham 's." Talking disjointedly of nothings, she kept 
 thinking of what she had said to Knellwood, and 
 why he had asked her a question so strangely unlike 
 the man to ask. Herself a creature of impulse, she 
 was far from seeing that he, too, had been for the
 
 180 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 moment the prey of an impulse. At length she began 
 to find in the abruptness of his retreat an evidence 
 of what she most desired to believe. Until her van- 
 ity had found for her this little crumb of comfort, 
 Miss Kitty's talk had been more than usually vapid 
 and disconnected ; but now, with her habitual readi- 
 ness, she recovered from the shock of self-discovery. 
 Something Blount said amused her. She turned to 
 him with the satisfaction such women find in the 
 last male creature. 
 
 She soon put him at ease, and he, in turn, began 
 to exercise his normal powers of observation and to 
 ask questions not always easy to answer. When at 
 last she missed Knellwood from the room, and knew 
 that he had gone, she drew from this further en- 
 couragement and gave her whole attention to Blount. 
 He said: "I must be pestering you with questions." 
 Kitty said she liked it. He had asked, as Knell- 
 wood went by them : ' ' Who is that ? ' ' She told him. 
 
 "I don't see why a preacher dresses like that and 
 wears a big cross. It looks like an advertisement, 
 as much as to say, 'Look at me. I am an up-and- 
 down righteous man.' ' 
 
 "Oh, you must not say such things, Mr. Blount. 
 It is the sign of his his high calling." 
 
 "But other people have high callings." 
 
 "But not like his." 
 
 . / "Do you think, miss, people's dress should always 
 in some way represent their business in life?" 
 
 "A clergyman's should." 
 
 * ' I don 't see why. And the women, ' ' said Blount, 
 "and the doctors?"
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 181 
 
 This bothered Kitty. 
 
 "I do not quite understand." 
 
 , "I was thinking Sydney Archer is quite as much 
 V a man of God as that big preacher. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Oh, hardly ! Of course, he is a very nice man. ' ' 
 
 "I should n't describe him that way, miss. Who 
 is the lady in the corner ? ' ' 
 
 "Mrs. Hunter, a friend of mine. Is she not beau- 
 tiful?" 
 
 "No. She is n't beautiful. I saw her once. I 
 was trying to think where it was in some hotel. 
 She don't ever have her mouth quite shut like a 
 rabbit, you know." It was true. 
 
 Kitty laughed. 
 
 "You are too critical. I shall suffer next." 
 
 "You, miss! Why, any one would say you were 
 beautiful." 
 
 "Good gracious!" cried Kitty, and they went on, 
 the woman amused and not ill pleased, the man at 
 his ease. 
 
 Presently Archer took an unoccupied seat beside 
 Mrs. Hunter, and an old admiral whom she had 
 been delighting rose. 
 
 At this moment Mary Fairthorne entered the room 
 
 and looked about her. Seeing Kitty, who was not 
 
 aware of her return, she went over to speak to her. 
 
 As she approached, Kitty drew a light scarf over the 
 
 white neck, but not quite in time. Mary saw her 
 
 mother's pearls, and, seeing, grew pale, as was her 
 
 / way when one of her rare storms of anger was rising. 
 
 * She said, with distinct articulation: "Good evening, 
 
 Katherine, ' ' and swept by.
 
 182 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Now, that 's a right splendid creature," said 
 Blount. "She looks like a Greek goddess." 
 
 "Oh, she is well enough; she is my cousin, Mary 
 Fairthorne. I think she is too tall. Mrs. Hunter 
 says she ought to live out of doors; she is too big 
 for a house. ' ' Kitty was frightened and cross, fore- 
 seeing a scene with Mary. 
 
 That lady, compelling herself to a state of calm, 
 spoke to Mrs. Hunter as Archer rose at her ap- 
 proach. She was still a little paler than common. 
 Mrs. Hunter hoped she was quite well again, and 
 Mary, thanking her, asked Archer how her uncle 
 was. She observed that he spoke with some caution, 
 saying that Mr. Fairthorne was much as usual. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter said: "Of course, you know best, but 
 he seems to me better. I shall be glad to resign my 
 place as nurse. To be Mr. Fairthorne 's secretary 
 is quite work enough." 
 
 Margaret had refrained from writing of this pro- 
 motion to her sister, not desiring to trouble her while 
 absent. 
 
 "Secretary!" exclaimed Mary, surprised out of 
 her usual calm. 
 
 "Yes; Mr. Fairthorne thought his nieces were 
 V quite overworked, and I need not say how very glad 
 I am to assist him and you." 
 
 "Indeed!" said Mary, glancing at Archer, who 
 said nothing. "I cannot say I have felt over- 
 worked. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, but Katherine!" Mrs. Hunter knew she 
 was worrying the tall girl, and liked the sport. 
 
 Mary made neither reply nor comment, but, turn-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 183 
 
 ing to Archer, said quietly: "Harry seems to have 
 had a brilliant success. He thinks he may soon 
 have to return to Virginia, unless Mr. Pilgrim can 
 very soon go down and take charge of the coal- 
 mines. ' ' 
 
 Martin Blount, who was but a short distance 
 away, in talk with Mrs. Swanwick, said suddenly : 
 
 "What is the matter with Mrs. Hunter? She is 
 going to faint." It was true. She was white, and 
 had fallen back in her seat. 
 
 "Oh, are you ill?" said Margaret. "What can I 
 do for you?" 
 
 Mrs. Hunter replied, with evident effort: "No; I 
 was I am a little faint a glass of water, please." 
 
 Margaret fanned her, the water was brought, and 
 in a moment she was herself, and laughingly apolo- 
 getic. Archer led her into the back room, which was 
 cooler. There, at a window opened for the min- 
 ute, she said: "I am subject to this annoyance at 
 times. I am apt to suffer in close rooms." Then 
 she asked him to find her a carriage. As his own 
 was at the door, he put her in it, and, promising to 
 excuse her to Miss Morrow, returned to the front 
 room to reassure and chat with Miss Kitty. 
 
 He found her less agreeable than usual. She 
 was thinking of Knellwood, and, too, was disturbed 
 as she caught her cousin's eye upon her. Kitty 
 rarely controlled her moods, and now she made Syd- 
 ney Archer uncomfortable, saying how much better 
 Mrs. Hunter cared for her uncle than Mary had 
 ever done, and how good a thing it would be if that 
 lady could be induced to come and live with them.
 
 184 CIECUMSTANCE 
 
 Of late Mrs. Hunter had more and more interfered 
 with him and now he rather unwisely lost his tem- 
 per, and said: "Miss Katherine, I do not agree with 
 you. Mrs. Hunter seems to think that her place as 
 secretary gives her the privilege to meddle with Mr. 
 Fairthorne's treatment. I think her most meddle- 
 some." 
 
 "I do not like to have my friend abused," said 
 Kitty. 
 
 "What I say to you I shall say to her. It has 
 become necessary to speak positively. I am sorry 
 if it annoys you." 
 
 "Then you had better not have said it." 
 
 "But," he returned, "how can I possibly fail to 
 speak as I do ? Miss Mary is away ; Mrs. Swanwick 
 is not available; and I naturally turn to you for 
 support against influences that are plainly hurtful. ' ' 
 
 "I really know nothing about it, and if I did I 
 should leave you and Mrs. Hunter to settle your 
 own quarrels." Miss Kitty, still cross because of 
 a deep humiliation, was half-consciously revenging 
 herself by rudeness where rudeness was stingingly 
 felt. 
 
 Archer made no reply, but looked at her in mute 
 amazement. This Kitty was new to him. She rose 
 as she last spoke. When Margaret declared, as Mas- 
 ters had done, that Kitty was sometimes a little 
 common, she was correct. For the time Sydney 
 Archer was a disenchanted man. He, too, made no 
 comment, and was relieved when Swanwick came up, 
 saying : ' ' There is a little supper in the back room. ' ' 
 
 Soon after the guests went away, and Kitty bade
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 185 
 
 a hurried good-bye, eager to escape her cousin. But 
 at this moment she heard Mary behind her. 
 
 ' ' Come up to the library, Katherine. ' ' 
 
 "No. I must go home. It is late." They were 
 now in the hall. 
 
 "You must come if I have to carry you." 
 
 Kitty whimpered: "I knew you would be angry, 
 but Mrs. Hunter said you would be glad to have me 
 wear them." Mary made no reply. When they 
 were in the library alone, she closed the door and 
 said: 
 
 "Give me that necklace." 
 
 Kitty obeyed, saying: "I would never treat you 
 so." 
 
 "Kitty," said her cousin, "you have hurt me 
 more than I can say. Never do it again. I have 
 never yet been able to wear my mother's pearls." 
 
 "Oh, I know. But then I might. I don't see 
 why you are so so particular about your pearls, 
 Mary. You might wear anything I own. Mrs. 
 Hunter said " 
 
 Then Mary lost her temper. 
 
 "Mrs. Hunter is a servant of my uncle. I do 
 not permit her to meddle with me. I shall say 
 to her what I think of her and of this piece of in- 
 solence. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, Mary, please not. She will be so angry with 
 me." 
 
 "Do you think that is of the slightest moment to 
 me? My uncle will have to choose if this sort of 
 thing continues ; and as for you, never, never again 
 let this woman come between us. Remember!"
 
 186 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 She set her hands on Kitty's white shoulders, and 
 repeated : ' ' Remember ! ' ' 
 
 "You hurt me. You are rude." 
 
 "Rude! You are unbearable. A little while ago 
 you insulted me about that letter. Now you wrong 
 and hurt me and have not even enough decent senti- 
 ment to understand why I am angry." 
 
 "What is the matter, girls?" said Margaret, as she 
 stood at the door. 
 
 "Mary has pinched me," said Kitty. 
 
 This queer statement and the drop from what to 
 Mary was serious seemed to her so comical that she 
 laughed, as she said : ' ' Kitty has been wearing my 
 mother's pearls by the sage advice of Mrs. Hunter, 
 and I have been angry. Go home, Kitty; I am 
 sorry I said so much." 
 
 "I will never speak to you again." 
 
 "Yes, you will," said Margaret. "You were 
 wrong. There, now, don't say any more. Good- 
 bye," and Kitty went away. 
 
 Then Mary said: "It is intolerable, Madge, per- 
 fectly intolerable ! That woman ! I told Harry she 
 was dangerous. I am going to bed. Good night. 
 Do not tell Harry, Madge. I shall if I stay up. ' ' 
 
 "No, it is not worth while." 
 
 "Plumbers or no plumbers," said Mary, "I shall 
 go home to-morrow. ' ' 
 
 "I would," said her sister; "but we shall be sorry 
 to lose you." 
 
 When Harry joined her a few minutes later, and 
 sat down for his pipe, he said : 
 
 "Madge, that queer Dick Sydney Archer brought
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 187 
 
 here amused me. You told me before I left that 
 Archer had asked you to take an interest in him, 
 but I have been so long away that I have lost touch 
 of you and your menagerie. What about this new 
 animal? We had a few words together. You had 
 better take his costume in hand." 
 
 She laughed. "All in good time. That will 
 come. ' ' Then she told how Archer had asked her to 
 help the young man. "He really is worth it, 
 Harry. Imagine the son of an old-fashioned An- 
 dover professor thrown at ten on the mercy of rough 
 farming people, and left to grow up a mere farm- 
 hand. He somehow scraped together enough to give 
 him two years at Amherst. Then he kept hotel 
 books two summers, and did lumber work in winter. 
 Archer will tell you the rest. Mr. Grace is helping 
 him through his medical course, and our dear white 
 mice, at Archer's request, are lodging him. It is 
 easy to see how rough he is and how entirely with- 
 out social training, but Clementina says he is 
 thoughtfully kind and considerate. I told you that 
 he comes of good stock. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, you did. I often wonder how much of us 
 is breed and how much training. And so you are 
 to be the lapidary of this rough diamond?" 
 
 "I am Archer and I." 
 
 "And how do you do it?" 
 
 "Oh, the man has a talent for taking hints. You 
 need not laugh. I am not hinting at any one's 
 failure to possess that talent." 
 
 "How does his talent show? It is a good sign." 
 
 "Well, the nail question. I merely mentioned
 
 188 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 that Sydney Archer had well-made hands, and that I 
 thought a doctor should be careful of them. Mr. 
 Blount's fingers have been immaculate ever since." 
 
 ' ' I see, ' ' he said. ' ' You are a delightful woman. ' ' 
 
 "Am I not?" she laughed. 
 
 "Let me see the embryo doctor. I shall be glad 
 to help you." 
 
 "I knew you would."
 
 XIX 
 
 Kitty met Mrs. Hunter next morn- 
 ing she said: 
 
 "Dear Lucretia, you look as if you 
 had seen a ghost." 
 
 "I have, dear in my sleep. Some- 
 thing disagreed with me last evening. ' ' It was true 
 in a way. Conscious of defeat as imminent, she had 
 lain awake busily weaving schemes of self-defense. 
 At last she sat up in the darkness and said, aloud, 
 "Yes, that will do," and fell into a restless sleep. 
 
 When, in the morning, she entered Mr. Fair- 
 thorne's library, he said: "You are late." 
 
 "Yes, I am not very well. A small matter. Here 
 is your medicine, but I do not think I would take 
 it; you are looking so well to-day." He was 
 pleased to escape, and said so. She had urged that 
 this constant dosing only served to make him be- 
 lieve that he was ill, to keep his mind on himself. 
 
 "Shall I open the letters?" She was careful to 
 ask leave. She ran over them and read their con- 
 tents aloud. "Ah, here is a man who writes that he 
 has some letters of your grandfather's." 
 
 He sat up, interested. ' ' The man in South Street ? 
 I wish you would see him, and find out what they 
 are about."
 
 J 
 
 190 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 She said she would. ' ' And these bills ? ' ' 
 "Well, pay them." As he spoke she slipped an 
 unopened letter into her pocket. 
 "What was that?" he asked. 
 "A letter for me, sir, to your care." 
 She went through the work of cataloguing with 
 her usual skill and accuracy, and then, glad to es- 
 cape, left earlier than usual to see about the auto- 
 graphs, as she said. 
 
 When she was in the street she opened the letter 
 she had purloined. She had instantly recognized 
 the writing on the envelope. It ran thus: 
 
 " DEAR SIR : At last I am free to visit those mines. I shall 
 be in Philadelphia in four days. 
 
 "Yours truly, 
 
 " LUKE PILGRIM." 
 
 She reread it, looked long at the large, bold signa- 
 ture, slowly replaced the note, and walked on. 
 
 "How long will he be here? I must go away for 
 a while. It is getting tangled. What a lot of things 
 turn up ! Why out of fifty million of men should 
 this one man cross my path? Let me think. Ah, 
 my handwriting! It is horribly peculiar. No one 
 can escape from that. He is not likely to see my 
 memoranda on the autograph covers. And Kitty 
 wanted my photograph. Not I, indeed! And he 
 never saw Lionel." 
 
 She thought it all over, and, in fact, nothing es- 
 caped her. The same ability honestly used would 
 have given her success in any one of half a dozen 
 less hazardous pursuits, but, like some thieves, she
 
 CIKCUMSTANCE 191 
 
 enjoyed the risk of the game in which she was 
 engaged. 
 
 She walked slowly, and at last, smiling, moved 
 faster, as she said to herself: "I shall know from 
 Kitty when he goes and of his return. And, after all, 
 how the old man will miss me! It will be lively in 
 that house. Ah, well!" 
 
 She went on toward South Street, pleased at her 
 own cleverness and courageous as always. She soon 
 found the little bric-a-brac shop and entered. It 
 contained a dusty litter of cracked china, ragged 
 books, and rusty, valueless arms. A pock-marked 
 little crippled man on crutches came forward. Mrs. 
 Hunter would like to see the letters of George Bene- 
 dict Fairthorne. She came at Mr. Fairthorne 's re- 
 quest. 
 
 "Here they are," he said, placing a soiled port- 
 folio before her. "I don't guarantee autographs. 
 I buy and I sell, but I don't ask questions and I 
 don't answer none." 
 
 Mrs. Hunter took from her pocket a magnifying- 
 lens and began to study the script. The few weeks 
 in Fairthorne 's library had not been wasted. She 
 closed the portfolio. "How much do you want for 
 the lot? There are thirty-seven letters." 
 
 "Two hundred dollars, if Mr. Fairthorne takes 
 all." 
 
 "I offer you one hundred." 
 
 He said, "No," and she promptly rose and left 
 him. At the next corner he overtook her. 
 
 ' ' One fifty, ' ' said he. 
 
 "No."
 
 192 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 ''Oh, then, one hundred." 
 
 "Send them to Mr. Fairthorne for examination. 
 He will decide. You know the address." 
 
 As she moved away she thought how easy to make 
 that other hundred. 
 
 "He would give two hundred if I were to advise 
 it. Yet, there is a better way," and she laughed 
 aloud. "The letters are forged. But I must have 
 money. Lionel is outrageous. It is too bad." She 
 simply could not refuse anything to this idle, worth- 
 less young fellow. 
 
 That day, after luncheon, Mary appeared, and de- 
 spite the pervasive plumber settled herself in her 
 own rooms. Well as she knew Kitty, it was a sur- 
 prise to her when that young woman threw herself 
 into her arms, saying: 
 
 "You were so unkind! but I forgive you, dearest 
 Mary. Don't think for a moment that I don't for- 
 give you." 
 
 Mary, vastly amused, kissed her, and the affair of 
 the pearls was at an end, for Kitty at least. Whether 
 or not she should speak of it to Mrs. Hunter, Mary 
 did not then decide. She went down-stairs to her 
 uncle 's library, and, coming in, found him very full 
 of excitement over the letters of her ancestor. She 
 was equally interested. He hardly noticed her kiss, 
 and said : ' ' They run over many years, Mary. Here 
 is one about the Stamp Act. The last is in 1780. 
 Where did the man get them? They are addressed 
 to several people. What do you think, Mrs. Hun- 
 ter? How much was it he asked?" 
 
 "One hundred. But they are forgeries. There
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 193 
 
 are traces of the pencil alongside of some of the let- 
 ters. See, sir?" 
 
 He said, peevishly: "My eyes are too old." 
 
 Mary, using a lens, saw that the secretary was 
 right. He did not want to be convinced, and argued 
 the matter until Lucretia said : 
 
 "Your grandfather dropped the name of Benedict 
 after Arnold's treason." 
 
 "He did," said Mary. 
 
 "I stopped at the library to look up the dates in 
 Sargent's 'Life of Andre.' The signature of Bene- 
 dict is missing in these letters a year too early." 
 
 "By George! That is clever," said Fairthorne, 
 and Mary began, perhaps for the first time, to ap- 
 preciate justly the secretary's ability. She was too 
 honest not to say what she thought, and after a little 
 more discussion of water-marks and what not went 
 back to her room. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter closed the door and said : ' ' Here, sir, 
 is a letter, come by the noon mail." She read aloud 
 Luke Pilgrim's note. The old man was delighted 
 that Lucretia should know Pilgrim. 
 
 "An unusual man; an able engineer; odd sort of 
 talker; believes in this country." He ran on, gar- 
 rulous, at times saying shrewdly cynical things and 
 then other things of no moment. She waited, seem- 
 ing to hang on every word. When he ceased, she 
 said : " I should like to see him, but I must lose this 
 pleasure for the time. I have to go to New York 
 in a day or two on a little business." 
 
 ' ' You must not, ' ' he said, taking her hand. ' ' You 
 won't leave me." 
 
 13
 
 194 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "I have to go. It is only for a few days. You 
 will write to me when I am gone, and you will have 
 Mary and Kitty." 
 
 "But they are not you. You will have to come 
 and live here." 
 
 "Oh, no! That is out of the question. Miss 
 Mary does not like me. That would never do." 
 
 "Then she will have to like you, or I will know 
 why." 
 
 "Don't urge it, sir. Some day, perhaps ; and now 
 I must go." She kissed his hand, and saying, 
 "Don't worry," went away. 
 
 He rose and rang angrily. 
 
 "Send Miss Mary here." She came at once. 
 
 "What is it, uncle?" 
 
 "I have seen that you are making it unpleasant 
 for Lucretia." 
 
 "Lucretia!" 
 
 "Damn it! I said Lucretia. She has filled the 
 place you and Kitty ought to fill. I am a forsaken 
 old man. Do you hear me? And don't tap that 
 way with your foot. I mean to be master in my own 
 house and I want you to remember that I can alter 
 my will at any minute." 
 
 This was so unlike him that for a moment Mary 
 was dumb. 
 
 "Why the devil don't you say something !" 
 
 She made no reply. Usually, despite his unstable 
 temper, he was pretty sure to be sobered by her 
 silent endurance and to apologize when he had gone 
 too far. She did not fully realize how rapidly he 
 was undergoing degenerative changes, nor how ably
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 195 
 
 a scheming woman had fed his vanity and by degrees 
 maliciously made trouble for his niece. At last she 
 spoke, looking down on him from her height in 
 grief and scorn: "You have not been neglected. 
 That woman is an unprincipled intriguer. What 
 she wants I neither know nor care. As to your 
 money, sir, do as you will with it. But if this goes 
 on, and you talk to me as unjustly again, I will go 
 and live with my sister." 
 
 ' ' Oh, Mary ! " he said, of a sudden alarmed, ' ' you 
 would not do that. I Mrs. Hunter " 
 
 "Mrs. Hunter has nothing to do with it, uncle. 
 It is between you and me alone. I love you, I have 
 always honored and loved you, but this kind of in- 
 justice I cannot and will not endure." 
 
 "Well," he said, "we won't talk about it any 
 more. ' ' He was terribly afraid that she would leave 
 him, and, being a very conventional person, dreaded 
 the gossip and the scandal such a desertion would 
 cause, and what Harry and, above all, Margaret 
 would say. 
 
 "You won't desert me. Mrs. Hunter is going 
 away. Oh, only for a week." 
 
 ' ' Indeed ! I think you were very cruel, but I will 
 say no more," and, still angry, she determined that 
 now she should have to speak of the pearls to Mrs. 
 Hunter, and would under no circumstances execute 
 her threat of leaving. As she went to her room 
 again, she murmured: 
 
 ' ' Lucretia ! Lucretia, indeed ! Does she call him 
 John ? ' ' 
 
 She had said very little to Kitty about her horse,
 
 196 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 but even had not the mare been lame, it was late 
 to ride, and she missed the relief which physical 
 exercise brings to aid the cause of the lesser morals. 
 She needed some mode of relief, for she felt, as she 
 went slowly up-stairs, that anger costs too much and 
 brings with it a painful sense of having failed in 
 self-control. She sat down and wrote in her diary : 
 
 "To be angry leaves me feeling as if I had been ill, and then, 
 too, I have the humiliation of having fallen in my own esteem. 
 I must tell uncle I am sorry. No, I did say so, and before I 
 was honestly sorry, but he was then afraid I would go away. 
 If again I excuse myself he will turn on me and we shall have 
 another scene. It is hard to do right. Finally, I must not de- 
 sert him. As for his money, I told him the truth, but Madge 
 would not agree with me. 
 
 "And so Harry says Luke Pilgrim is coming. I hope he will 
 not bother me again. Once it seemed possible, but when I knew, 
 when he told me his life oh, then it would have been too hor- 
 rible for me. Now, it is over and done with, and there are 
 things I cannot discuss, even on paper " 
 
 "Or," she might have added, "with Mary Fair- 
 thorne."
 
 XX 
 
 |EVERAL things of interest happened 
 in the week of Mrs. Hunter's absence. 
 How long would be her stay she did 
 not know, and she left her brother with 
 doubt in her mind, since he had quite 
 suddenly declared that he could endure Miss Letitia 
 Markham's rules no longer, and had taken a small 
 room next to his sister's at the hotel where Mrs. 
 Hunter was living. It was his first signal of open 
 rebellion, and was the more ungrateful because she 
 had introduced him to Miss Morrow one morning 
 after church, and Kitty had evidently been pleased 
 with his good looks and his too open way of express- 
 ing his admiration. Mary, who was practically the 
 only dutiful guard over Kitty, was vexed when the 
 young man called next day. He was told that Miss 
 Katherine was in. Mary, with various motives in her 
 mind, went down-stairs and said to Mr. Craig : ' ' The 
 servant made a mistake. Miss Morrow is out. ' ' She 
 did not ask him to sit down, and herself stood silent, 
 noting his slightly Oriental type and expecting him 
 to go at once. 
 
 He was, however, a little confused and discon- 
 certed by the quiet of the tall girl who stood looking 
 197
 
 198 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 down to him. He said: ''My sister was so good as 
 to introduce me to Miss Katherine. ' ' 
 
 "Miss Morrow," corrected Mary. 
 
 He was too inapprehensive to accept the reproof. 
 His sister, who had been convent-bred, had studi- 
 ously acquired the forms of ordinary manners, but 
 had been sadly defeated by his impatience in her 
 effort to polish Lionel. He said: "Yes, Miss Kath- 
 erine Morrow. I am sorry she is n't in, but I am 
 very glad to see you." 
 
 "She is seldom at home," said Mary; "and, par- 
 don me, I hear Mr. Fairthorne's bell." It seemed 
 to her during Mrs. Hunter's absence to ring all day. 
 Then he said : " I hope you will say I called. ' ' Mary 
 replied that she would do so, and he went away. 
 When she remonstrated with Kitty, that young per- 
 son said, with truth : 
 
 "No; all I know is that he is Lucre tia's brother. 
 I could not help his being introduced to me." As 
 to asking him to call, how did Mary know that ? and 
 she wished that people would mind their own 
 business. 
 
 Mr. Fairthorne wrote daily to the secretary, be- 
 wailing her absence more and more. He wrote, too, 
 that Mr. Pilgrim had been to West Virginia, and 
 had returned to report and consult. He would go 
 again in a week, and would this time be absent in 
 Virginia for a month. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter wrote him clever and entertaining 
 letters about autographs and the books in the Lenox 
 Library. He read parts of them to Mary, and wished 
 every one were as thoughtful.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 199 
 
 Mrs. Hunter, careful about all things, had left for 
 New York two days before Pilgrim turned up at the 
 Swan wicks', where he usually stayed while in their 
 city. They had long been his friends. He arrived 
 to find them all out. 
 
 As it was too late to see Mr. Fairthorne, who 
 napped late in the afternoon, he called on the Misses 
 Markham, in whose house he had once lived for a 
 part of a winter, returning in time to dress for din- 
 ner. As Mr. Grace dined with them he had no 
 chance of intimate talk until late in the evening, 
 when, about the fire in the library, he and Mar- 
 garet were alone, Harry having gone elsewhere with 
 Grace. 
 
 "You may smoke," she said. 
 
 ' ' Thanks, Mrs. Margaret. I liked your Mr. Grace. 
 A Pennsylvania Yankee, he called himself. I sus- 
 pect that I may have amused him." 
 
 "Why do you do that sort of thing? You are not 
 really a Buddhist. ' ' 
 
 "I don't know. I have had a variety of creeds. 
 It is intellectually interesting to put yourself in an 
 attitude of faith as regards a religion not your 
 own." 
 
 "I cannot conceive of that as possible if you hon- 
 estly possess a creed by which you live." 
 
 "No one lives by his creed." 
 
 ' ' No, only by what it pledges one to. I try to live 
 by mine, and so, I am sure, does Mr. Grace. You 
 do yourself injustice." 
 
 "No," he returned ; "you think of your religion as 
 definite. Nothing is less so. Every one, as life goes
 
 200 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 on, evolves a religion which is, at last, personal. 
 It is the man plus the creed. In every church are 
 thousands of religions. ' ' 
 
 "You are, as usual, puzzling. I think I could 
 logically confute you. It is n't worth while, but, I 
 will add, as fatal, that I know what you will do or 
 not do in every conceivable human situation. If you 
 were a Buddhist or a Mohammedan I should not. I 
 never know what you will say, but always what you 
 will do oh, that I know, and I know it because I 
 am sure that certain well-defined principles con- 
 trol you. ' ' 
 
 "And so you honestly believe that you know me?" 
 
 "Yes-I do." 
 
 "Do you think I could ever be tempted to murder 
 any one ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, tempted no more. I do wish that you 
 would not make a man like Grace think you are " 
 she hesitated. 
 
 "Well, are what?" 
 
 "Never mind what. He was comically surprised 
 when you turned to talk of mining and the paleon- 
 tology of the coal deposits." 
 
 "I did not mean to surprise him by any of my 
 talk. I fancy him a man so trained to a regular 
 conventional business life that he may take too seri- 
 ously the vagaries of a man of another type. A ter- 
 ribly earnest person, I should think. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, he is that," said Mrs. Swan wick; "and, too, 
 
 he is a man who is learning many things just now. 
 
 \ The American of his class has a queerly open mind. 
 
 ^ I Where did you go to-day ? You saw Uncle John ? ' '
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 201 
 
 "No, it was too late. I called on the Markhams. 
 Miss Letitia was as delightful as usual. She still 
 indulges in a kind of fiction as to their not keeping 
 a boarding-house. It is rather pathetic. Why 
 would I not come and stay? Now that Clementina 
 was older, having young men in the house was less 
 embarrassing. I was flattered by the classification. 
 Clementina said, 'Quite so, Letitia,' but was slyly 
 amused. One of their young men, Clementina com- 
 plained, was not at all a nice person in fact, ill- 
 bred. 'And gave us notice, Mr. Pilgrim ! He really 
 gave us notice ! ' Letitia thought well to reprove 
 him. 'We are glad that he has gone.' 'Yes, we are 
 glad, sister.' I assure you they were charming, as 
 they sat up on the high chairs of Peter Markham, 
 under the portraits, model little dames, with legs too 
 short to touch the floor." 
 
 "But what did our dear Letitia say to that sad 
 young man?" 
 
 "Oh, I forgot that. She said, 'Mr. Craig, you 
 are quite free to go when you please. People do 
 not need to give us notice.' ' 
 
 Madge laughed merrily. 
 
 "What a terrible reproof! And then what 
 then?" 
 
 "Clementina said, 'He guessed we would n't make 
 any money if we ran a boarding-house that way, and 
 then we both walked out of the room. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Our dear white mice ! They will not let Tom 
 Masters help them. When they need new silk gowns 
 Tom goes to Harry, and Harry recovers some myste- 
 rious debt out of their father's wrecked estate. I
 
 202 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 have a fancy that they understand it. I am sure 
 Clementina does." 
 
 "I saw their young man," said Pilgrim. "He 
 had forgotten something and came back to get it. 
 A pretty young man, and would look well in petti- 
 coats. They have another young man besides old 
 Wilson, who, you know, has all the rest of the house. 
 By the way, he is going to leave them." 
 
 "Indeed, I am sorry to hear it. That other is my 
 young man!" and she narrated Dr. Archer's strata- 
 gem, and her education of Blount. 
 
 "You are as good as always, Mrs. Margaret. How 
 is Miss Fairthorne ? She, too, was out. ' ' 
 
 "Very well," she said; "but, like all of us, rather 
 troubled about my uncle. Kitty took a fancy to a 
 Mrs. Hunter, whom she fell in love with at Newport, 
 and now oh, it is a long story! Somehow this 
 woman has fastened herself on Uncle John and has 
 magnetized Kitty." 
 
 "Is it serious?" he asked. "Does it really dis- 
 tress you?" 
 
 "Yes, greatly. One never can tell what may 
 happen. ' ' 
 
 "I have known such cases. I shall be curious to 
 see her. ' ' 
 
 "You will not see her. She is away, and Uncle 
 John is behaving like a child who has lost a nurse." 
 
 Pilgrim was silent awhile, smoking quietly, before 
 he said : 
 
 "Mrs. Margaret, do you think time will have 
 made it worth while?" She knew what he meant. 
 
 "No, I do not. It was a question of sentiment
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 203 
 
 with Mary, perhaps of what some people might call 
 excess of sentiment. It could not have been a mat- 
 ter of religious scruple on her part. But whatever 
 I do or say, you will ask again. You will hurt her 
 and yourself. That you were innocent does not in 
 the least affect her, and, indeed, I think she might 
 have cared for you once; but Mary has too much 
 imagination." 
 
 "And if if that woman were dead?" 
 
 ' ' It would make no difference. At least not now. 
 Do you know, dear old friend, anything of her ? ' ' 
 
 "I do not for these last four or five years. She 
 still draws the income I set aside for her. I did not 
 mean her to be tempted by want of means. Ah, but 
 this is an unkind world." 
 
 "Yes, and most unkind to her best." 
 
 "I may not be that I am not that, I fear; but I 
 was so constructed as to suffer more keenly than 
 many would. I do not know where she is. I do not 
 want to know. We are farther apart than two who 
 have never been married. I hope others do not suf- 
 fer as I do, for I cannot realize, I never have real- 
 ized, the completeness of the divorce. She still seems 
 horribly to belong to me, to be mine." 
 
 "But surely, dear friend, you do not love her." 
 
 "Love her! I hate her as I hate no other thing 
 on earth. It is some devilish combination of hate 
 and loathing. I asked you if you thought I could 
 ever murder " 
 
 Madge looked up at the stern face. 
 
 "Do you understand?" he said. 
 
 "Yes, I understand."
 
 204 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "What she did was worse than that. She mur- 
 * dered life, hope, and the innocent chance of love 
 unborn." 
 
 Madge glanced at him again, oppressed to silence 
 by her vast pity over this lifelong calamity. She 
 thought sadly of the folly which, in his green youth, 
 had cursed his life. She knew very little of this 
 marriage, only the bare facts. He was a reticent 
 man, and to her alone had ever confessed himself. 
 ,/ But a man will say to a woman friend what he will 
 never say to a man, and the outer world knew little 
 of the life of the eminent engineer. They were both 
 silent awhile, and then she said : "I do wish I could 
 help you." 
 
 "No one can help me. I am a little child crying 
 for the moon." 
 
 "And if it be the moon, you cannot get it, and so 
 would it not be wise a little to forget?" 
 
 "Ah, that is the curse of life, to be unable to 
 forget. Perhaps that will be the best gift of the 
 other world." 
 
 Pleased to turn the talk aside, she said: "I am 
 very materialistic in my hopes of that other world. 
 I want Harry and Jack and the baby, and I cannot 
 dream a better world than ours if I could leave out 
 of it a few minor discomforts a few." 
 
 "I sometimes think it rather stupidly con- 
 structed," he said. 
 
 "Well," she returned, "my uncle is much of your 
 opinion. He says that, considering the ingenuity of 
 nature and her unlimited resources, she seems to 
 have blundered a good deal. ' '
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 205 
 
 "Perhaps. When as a youngster I was thrashed, 
 it appeared to me outrageously stupid, a very com- 
 plete blunder." 
 
 "My sister answered uncle by quoting, 'Imperfec- 
 tion is the noblest gift of God.' " 
 
 "How like her that was!" he said. "Ah, here is 
 Harry."
 
 XXI 
 
 [HE days ran on in the home of John 
 Fairthorne very quietly, save for the 
 uncertain temper of the master, who 
 querulously complained of Mrs. Hun- 
 tex's absence. Mr. Luke Pilgrim was 
 there daily. He had plans to discuss with Fair- 
 thorne, on whom such matters acted as a tonic. The 
 legal questions connected with the settlement of 
 boundaries involved also consultations with Swan- 
 wick, and thus it was that a fortnight passed and 
 they were well on into December before Pilgrim was 
 able to return to West Virginia. 
 
 During this period, as Mr. Fairthorne was kept 
 excited and more or less busy, the house lost the 
 uneasiness which in some ways even the servants had 
 felt so long as Mrs. Hunter's rule prevailed. Where 
 Mary Fairthorne governed there was patience and a 
 certain sweet serenity. Things went along tran- 
 quilly and the domestic machinery worked smoothly, 
 as the best machines should do. 
 
 Kitty was devotional and attended evensong, and 
 
 sometimes, by chance, was met by Mr. Craig after 
 
 the services. But, except that he was a man, he did 
 
 not please her as did most new male acquaintances, 
 
 206
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 207 
 
 and this she herself recognized and put down to all 
 causes but the one which was giving rise to the near- 
 est approach to an honest heart-stir her life had as 
 yet felt. When, again, this irrepressible young 
 woman sent notes asking to consult Mr. Knellwood 
 he did not reply in person, but wrote rather short 
 answers. When she begged that he would again 
 allow her to confess to him, he wrote curtly that it 
 was impossible. 
 
 The retiarius was tangled in his own net. Kitty 
 became pale, and went less and less to dinners and 
 balls, longing for Mrs. Hunter's return. 
 
 But even after she knew that the engineer had 
 gone, Lucretia lingered in New York. Soon, how- 
 ever, the excitement of business being over, Mr. 
 Fairthorne began to insist on her return. Then she 
 wrote that she had an offer to assist in the manage- 
 ment of a school in the West, at a salary so large 
 that it seemed folly to decline. Nothing but her rec- 
 ognition of the advantages of constant contact with 
 a mind like that of Mr. Fairthorne made her hesi- 
 tate. He groaned a little, but replied at once by 
 offering her twenty-five dollars a month in addition 
 to her present salary. Lucretia wrote him a note of 
 thanks, and the next day took the afternoon train to 
 Philadelphia. 
 
 It was one of Fairthorne 's evil days. Archer 
 had insisted that he must not drive. When Mary 
 said that in this case she would use the carriage, 
 he said : 
 
 ' ' No ; it must go to the station for Mrs. Hunter. ' ' 
 
 Mary, learning thus for the first time of her com-
 
 208 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 ing, flushed a little, and said she could do her er- 
 rands afoot. 
 
 For a while this December, Mrs. Hunter, being 
 in a good humor and seeing all Mr. Pilgrim's let- 
 ters, was at ease and, for her, amiably disposed. 
 Except that her brother had again been taken se- 
 verely to task, she would have felt that the world 
 was at last treating her well. When, however, he 
 confessed, a few days later, that Mr. Grace had told 
 him that in a month he must leave, she was in de- 
 spair. He bewailed in a childlike way his sad fate 
 as she caressed him and sat thinking what she should 
 do. Kitty had not been captured, as she had fool- 
 ishly hoped. That rather wild idea she had at last 
 deliberately given up. It was plain that Knellwood 
 not being attainable, Kitty was again playing with 
 Archer. Her she could manage, but what about 
 Lionel? Then she remembered. 
 
 Next day she turned from reading the morning 
 paper to Mr. Fairthorne and said: "May I take a 
 great liberty, sir ? " 
 
 When he said : ' ' You never take liberties, but you 
 sometimes say damned queer things. What is it?" 
 she went on to tell him that a friend in New York 
 had asked her if the Republic Trust Company were 
 in sound condition. Fairthorne was too little his 
 old shrewd self to see the absurdity of Mrs. Hunter's 
 being thus consulted. 
 
 "I saw," she went on, "in your property schedule 
 that you hold a large amount of the stock. ' ' 
 
 He at once was alarmed. "Mr. Masters asked my 
 advice about it some time ago. After that I forgot 
 it. I forget everything nowadays. Thank you."
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 209 
 
 "May I be permitted to suggest that you consult 
 Mr. Grace about it? He would, I am sure, come 
 here if you wrote to ask him." 
 
 When he said Harry Swanwick could see Mr. 
 Grace, she urged that he would not be as competent, 
 and so, the letter being written, the banker, rather 
 pleased to be consulted, came next day. He had 
 meant to call about this very matter. 
 
 Mr. Fairthorne said nothing of his secretary, and 
 simply put his question as to the stock. Grace re- 
 plied that it had been badly managed, but was now, 
 he learned, doing better and being better taken care 
 of. Then he said that the finances of the country 
 were in a critical state, and that he himself held a 
 large amount of this stock. It was now down to par. 
 If he or any one were to throw on the market a large 
 block of the stock it might cause a serious fall, a 
 run on the deposits, and possibly bring about a 
 failure. He assured Mr. Fairthorne that on the 
 whole he himself had decided not to sell, but he did 
 not so advise Mr. Fairthorne. He thought he must 
 judge for himself. 
 
 The old man hesitated a little, and when Grace 
 saw this he said at once : 
 
 "If you determine to sell, I will take the whole 
 of your stock at par. So large a sale, if made in the 
 usual way and reported, would be calamitous. I 
 should prefer to accept your stock, as I have said, 
 even at a loss." 
 
 Fairthorne, who had no very good opinion of any 
 one who dealt in money, became at once suspicious 
 of an attempt to get the better of him, and replied 
 with his old-fashioned manner that he was greatly 
 
 u
 
 210 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 obliged, but would hold his stock and hoped it would 
 rise to what he had paid for it. 
 
 Grace, satisfied, rose, when Fairthorne said : 
 
 ''By the way, you have my secretary's brother, 
 Craig, in your office. I hear that he has not done 
 well, and that you have told him to leave." 
 
 Grace smiled. 
 
 "Why, yes, Mr. Fairthorne. He is really quite 
 worthless. He is careless and lazy, and frequents 
 billiard-rooms and is seen with people who are 
 known to be disreputable. I try to know about my 
 clerks. ' ' 
 
 "That is all very bad," said Fairthorne; "but 
 may I ask, as a favor, that you will give him another 
 trial?" 
 
 Grace, rather pleased to oblige John Fairthorne, 
 said: 
 
 "Oh, certainly; it is a small matter. He shall 
 have his chance." 
 
 Fairthorne rose with his guest, saying: 
 
 "Come in again when we have no business. My 
 nephew-in-law told me they had declined to send you 
 the Assembly book. I will speak of it to Masters 
 and Win wood." 
 
 Grace flushed a little at being thus patronized, 
 and at the disclosure of his social ambitions. 
 
 "It is of no moment, sir. I beg that you will not 
 trouble yourself." 
 
 When he had gone, Fairthorne said: "What the 
 devil does that dollar-grubber want with society? 
 These people ought to be kept in their places." 
 
 Mrs. Hunter, well pleased, thanked him ; and
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 211 
 
 Lionel, thoroughly scared at these revelations and 
 his own danger, for a time kept better hours and 
 was altogether more attentive. Roger Grace, partly 
 from kindness and partly because he was gratified 
 to oblige Mrs. Swanwick's uncle, had done a thing 
 which, although seemingly of no moment, was to 
 entail consequences of the gravest nature. He 
 brought about a battle between character and cir- 
 cumstance, of which we shall learn more.
 
 XXII 
 
 'ELIEVED for a time by Mrs. Hunter's 
 renewed services and by her rather too 
 watchful amiability, Mary Fairthorne 
 began to notice Kitty's paleness and 
 want of gaiety. At the same time she 
 saw that Dr. Archer was apt to be left by Mrs. Hun- 
 ter to give his daily orders to Kitty, who was always 
 near at hand upon these occasions. Why she was 
 lamenting the loss of one man and using her chances 
 to make another unhappy it would have puzzled 
 even Kitty to say, and it is to be remarked that of 
 her longing affection for Knellwood her cousin knew 
 nothing. She was worried about Kitty, and trou- 
 bled through all her nature with something akin to 
 dismay by her own self-revealments ; for this woman 
 was too honest to escape self-confession. 
 
 Very little was made of Christmas in John Fair- 
 thorne 's house, and it slipped away, as usual, 
 quietly. 
 
 On the 15th of January Mary wrote : 
 
 "DEAR MADGE: I will call for the children to-day, unless 
 Mrs. Hunter takes the carriage, which is rare of a morning. 
 But in any event you must have me to dinner. I cannot 
 stand Lucretia every third day. I am not in good enough 
 spirits to keep up with her clever talk, and Kitty is as melan- 
 212
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 213 
 
 choly as an autumn day, and what for I do not know. She used 
 to tell me always. Now I presume her confidante to be Mrs. 
 H., and, dear Madge, I love Kitty. You insist that your af- 
 fections are always reasonable mine are not. No matter, I 
 shall dine with you." 
 
 When Mary arrived, a little before dinner, her 
 sister said that Harry had wished her to be told 
 they would have two dull men to dine. When Mary 
 knew them to be Grace and Martin Blount, she said : 
 "Ah, this is your social kindergarten. How glad I 
 am that I came!" 
 
 People as unusual as Grace interested Mary, and 
 Archer's account of young Blount 's energy and in- 
 dustrious persistency pleased a woman appreciative 
 of all forms of honest human effort. 
 
 "Dr. Archer insists," said Madge, "that I am 
 really helping the young man when I give a tired 
 fellow the chance of an hour's talk. I like him, but, 
 my dear, he is terribly direct. After he had taken 
 and used practically a hint or two as to nails and 
 soiled cuffs, he blurted out, 'Dr. Archer said it was 
 an education to know you'; that is me, dear or I 
 should say I ; and he went on to say that now he knew 
 what his friend wanted, would I not just as leave 
 say, ' You must not do this, ' and ' You must do that, ' 
 ending with 'I won't mind. I '11 like it.' " 
 
 "Rather startling, that," said Mary. 
 
 "I meant to have had you here alone to-day with 
 Mr. Blount, but Harry wrote me he had asked Mr. 
 Grace. As to my young man, well, he does n't eat 
 with his knife now, but he does say queer things, 
 and he is what the doctor calls a natural observer.
 
 214 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 I call that a very dangerous animal. As to Mr. 
 Grace, I think of turning him over to Kitty. ' ' 
 
 " Don't, dear; she is out of tune, and just now 
 she is-" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Oh, no matter." 
 
 "Is it Sydney Archer again? He is too good to 
 be hawked at by Kitty. She is neither true woman 
 nor true lady; and as for the man, don't you know, 
 dear, the old posy 
 
 "There is always a fool 
 
 In the court of King Cupid, 
 And sometimes he is clever, 
 And sometimes is stupid." 
 
 "That is quite too true. But why this common 
 malady should so cloud men's wits has always puz- 
 zled me. I might love a man to distraction, but I do 
 not think I should cease to reason." 
 
 Madge smiled. 
 
 "Amor furor brevis est." 
 
 "I wish you would not use Latin quotations to 
 me. As for Dr. Archer, he will never marry Kit. 
 I am sure of that." 
 
 * ' Well, ' ' said Madge, ' ' we have only a friendly in- 
 terest, but I wish he were not such a fool. It lowers 
 one's opinion of a man to see him caught by such a 
 girl as Kitty." 
 
 "I do not think him a fool, but after all Oh, 
 here is Harry." 
 
 A moment later she rose, as Grace and Blount 
 entered. Archer had insisted that the young man
 
 CIKCUMSTANCE 215 
 
 should have a dress-suit, and how it was managed, 
 against Martin's inbred views on economy, neither 
 revealed. As he entered, Mary saw that this test 
 was well stood. The strong, rugged face looked its 
 best in the clothes to which fashion has so change- 
 lessly adhered. 
 
 Mary, very happy to be out of the forced gaiety 
 of Mrs. Hunter's society, enjoyed the evident plea- 
 sure which the two male guests found in the little 
 dinner-party. 
 
 Grace, a man of large views and national inter- 
 ests, was anything but dull. He talked well, and 
 the chat dealt not too heavily with the strike on the 
 railways of the year before and on party questions. 
 Blount was silent, but listened, and noticed auto- 
 matically what went on. He began to appreciate 
 the skill with which his hosts kept the talk going 
 even when to his mind a good deal of it seemed silly. 
 The gay folly of well-mannered chat was almost as 
 fresh to the banker as to Blount. The latter began, 
 as was his way, to try to analyze it. How did they 
 do it? And, above all, the goddess, Mary Fair- 
 thorne ! 
 
 During an unlucky pause in the talk, Blount said : 
 
 "You have dropped some gravy on your shirt- 
 front, Mr. Grace." 
 
 Mary said, quickly : 
 
 "I know a man who gets his whole menu there 
 when he dines. ' ' 
 
 "What is a menu?" said Martin. 
 
 "What you eat and what you do not," laughed 
 Harry. And while the banker, a trifle disconcerted,
 
 216 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 repaired as much as was possible of the mishap, Mar- 
 garet said: 
 
 "I saw you well splashed in the park last week, 
 Mr. Grace. You are hardy to face this weather." 
 
 "Oh, I must ride daily. I learned to ride after 
 I was thirty, and I am too timid to break the habit. 
 I should lose it altogether. ' ' 
 
 "I ride at least thrice a week," said Mary, "but 
 always on the Neck-roads, as you know. You must 
 ride with me some day. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, with pleasure." 
 
 "Why are you too timid to break a habit of rid- 
 ing ? ' ' asked Blount. 
 
 "I mean I am afraid of horses, Mr. Blount. 
 Are n 't you ever afraid of something ? No ; I ought 
 to say, have you any real fears ? We all have some 
 unconquerable terror. What different people dread 
 is interesting. ' ' 
 
 "Yes," said Blount, grimly; "I am afraid of 
 being hungry. I mean really half starved." 
 
 Mary knew at once that this was autobiographic, 
 and said : 
 
 "I trust you run no risk just now." 
 
 "That is so, miss," he returned, while the banker, 
 too keenly curious, asked : 
 
 "But were you ever half starved? Some people 
 dread a repetition of an experience, and some fear 
 what they have never known." 
 
 Blount looked grim enough as he replied : 
 
 "Yes, I was once about half starved for a year." 
 
 Mary longed to ask him how this chanced, but 
 Madge, a little fearful of some too frank autobiog-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 217 
 
 raphy, promptly invited her husband to confess his 
 special terror. 
 
 Harry, laughing, assured her that his utmost fear 
 was lest he should forget a dinner engagement and 
 arrive with the fruit. To Blount, who was reflect- 
 ing on a past of meager diet, this appeared trivial. 
 
 "And you, Mary?" asked Margaret. 
 
 "I am most afraid of I decline to say of what. 
 You may guess. ' ' 
 
 "Of illness?" 
 
 "No; of pain. That I do fear." 
 
 "You don't look like realizing it," said Blount, 
 who had carefully partaken of his first champagne, 
 and felt the effect more than he liked the taste. 
 
 Then Grace said: "I once asked a man this same 
 question, and he replied, 'I am afraid of myself.' ' 
 
 Madge wondered a moment at the gravity of his 
 tones, but Mary knew instantly that it was Grace 
 who had asked, and he who had answered. 
 
 "What can such a man fear in himself?" she 
 thought. The serious, clean-shaven face gave to her 
 glance no explanatory comment, as Harry cried, 
 gaily : 
 
 "I, too, am afraid of myself that is, of my better 
 half," and the talk again becoming too gay for 
 Blount to follow, he retired into his own mind to 
 guess at what Mr. Grace could have meant. 
 
 Then, as chances at a dinner, the chat ceased to be 
 general. Harry and Mary talked horses. Blount 
 listened, watched every one in turn, was at last 
 brought into the horse talk, and finally, he hardly 
 knew how, brought to relate how he had for a winter
 
 218 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 worked in lumber cainps on the lakes and later car- 
 ried the mail on skates over the lake to Mackinaw. 
 His description of the moonlit solitude of the great 
 lake and of his swift flight on ringing skates over 
 the ice, driven by a wild norther, was attractively 
 given. He had the gift of words. While the others 
 listened, Mrs. Swanwick and Mr. Grace talked in 
 lower tones of the large national questions which she 
 liked to discuss. Grace, like her husband, was a 
 steady Republican. She was as distinctly a Demo- 
 crat, and was now having what she dearly loved, a 
 grave argument. At last she said : 
 
 "I can stand in men anything but indifference to 
 these great questions. Mr. Knellwood thinks that a 
 clergyman should keep out of politics altogether. 
 When I told him it was wicked and a neglect of 
 / manifest duty, he replied that the Master of us all, 
 the Christ, never meddled with politics." 
 
 "Did he say that? Were you not tempted to ask 
 if there were any such things as politics in a modern 
 sense in Roman Judea?" 
 
 "No; it did not occur to me." 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 ' ' I said that there was no more sure way to injure 
 religion than to take a too narrow, a text-cramped, 
 view of what Christ taught." 
 
 " 'Text-cramped' I like," said Grace. "But no 
 one will move that man. He is anchored and makes 
 no voyages ; and yet, for all that, what a great, big, 
 good fellow he is! Between fasting and close liv- 
 ing, that he may give to others what he ought to 
 spend in feeding his bigness, I really think he half
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 219 
 
 starves himself. He is the most amazing beggar I 
 ever knew. I simply get out a check-book and say, 
 'How much?' Then he says I am wrong to give 
 without knowing why. I say again, 'How much?' 
 and he takes it and goes away." 
 
 "Yes, I can see him, with that pathetic smile. 
 Even my uncle gives him money, and he is apt to 
 hesitate. Now and then he comes to dine with us, 
 and, to speak mildly, enjoys it." 
 
 "No wonder," said Grace. "I should like you to 
 take me as what they call a ' mealer ' in Maine. I am 
 at the mercy of my cook, or cooks, and usually I am 
 driven to dine at my club, which I hate. The fact 
 is, my servants have not enough to do and that is 
 fatal. My cook, the last one, has aunts and god- 
 mothers, and I am, no doubt, robbed famously." 
 
 Mrs. Swanwick said: 
 
 "Why do not you take Miss Markham's house? 
 Mr. Wilson has gone abroad. He had all of one 
 story. They are in great need. You would be more 
 comfortable than ever you were in your life." 
 
 "What, those two little ladies you call the white 
 mice? It seems a reasonable idea. I will think of 
 it. How good of you to mention it!" 
 
 Mrs. Swanwick looked at her husband as she rose, 
 and the men went up-stairs to the library to smoke. 
 The women they left drew up to the fire in the par- 
 lor, and settled themselves for a talk about Jack 
 and Retta. 
 
 "I sent you word I could not come to-day," said 
 Mary. "Mrs. Hunter had the horses out. No, dear, 
 it is useless to complain. When our old Israel told
 
 220 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 uncle that the horses were being frozen, and he 'just 
 could n't stand it no more,' uncle said, 'well, he 
 could leave whenever he liked to go' and he has been 
 with us thirty years, dear. The woman is cruel." 
 
 "And how will it end?" asked Madge, as she 
 poked the fire. 
 
 "I do not know. It will never end. I have sim- 
 ply given up. Ah, Dr. Archer," and her face lit 
 up as she rose to make room. 
 
 "There is a fire," he said. "The Grant Hotel is 
 in a blaze. That is Mrs. Hunter's hotel. They told 
 me the fire was well in hand, and that every one 
 got out." 
 
 The matter did not much concern them, or so it 
 seemed; but, having named Mrs. Hunter, Archer 
 said: 
 
 "I do not want her scorched, but I do not think 
 I can stand that woman any longer. I am never 
 sure that what I order will be done. She has some 
 queer ideas of what she calls mental healing, a new 
 Boston fad, I believe." 
 
 Mary turned to him, and said: 
 
 "You must not desert us. I beg that you will 
 not. I know well how you must feel, but I 
 thought Kitty received your orders since I was set 
 aside." 
 
 "Yes," he said, "but Miss Morrow is " 
 
 "A fool," broke in Margaret, who was at times 
 outspoken. "Any one who trusts body or soul to 
 my cousin will repent soon or late. ' ' She had meant 
 to warn her friend, and now had done so. As soon 
 as she spoke she repented, but not very deeply.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 221 
 
 "You are hard on her, Mrs. Swan wick," he said. 
 "She is young and, perhaps, thoughtless. Are you 
 not hard on her?" 
 
 "No. She has no sense of duty. Kitty is gay, 
 what people describe as artless, and, Sydney Archer, 
 she is cruel, as a cat is cruel, from mere instinct 
 artless and heartless. What I have just said I have 
 said to her. It impressed her for five minutes. But 
 I was talking of my uncle in relation to Kitty, and 
 went beyond what I should have said even to a 
 friend like you." 
 
 Mary, who doubted the absolute honesty of this 
 explanation, remained silent, staring in the fire, a 
 little ashamed that she felt pleased. Then as he, too, 
 was silent, Madge said: 
 
 "You must not give up." 
 
 He returned that he would not unless he were 
 dismissed. 
 
 "Not even then; but that is out of the question." 
 
 "That were to promise too much," he replied. 
 So saying, he went up to join the men. What Mar- 
 garet had so bluntly and of purpose said of Kitty 
 had hurt him, and yet he knew it to be true. He 
 knew, too, that he was being played with, and that 
 what attracted him in Kitty was the mere woman. 
 It was this as much as Mrs. Hunter's interference 
 that furnished a part of his unspoken reasons for 
 really wishing to give up her uncle's case. 
 
 And this other woman? There was no one on 
 earth who so completely realized for him his ideal of 
 the true woman. 
 
 Could a man love two women? The one basely,
 
 222 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 the other nobly? Mary, in her dignified reserve, 
 seemed to him remote, and the other perilously near. 
 He stood a moment at the foot of the stairs, deep in 
 thought. 
 
 ' ' There may be two fools, ' ' he murmured ; ' ' the 
 fooler and the fooled." He went up the stairs. 
 
 "Give me a cigar, Harry. The Grant House has 
 been on fire." 
 
 "No one hurt?" asked Grace. 
 
 "No," and they fell to talking politics.
 
 XXIII 
 
 [BOUT nine o'clock on the same night 
 
 IF A n^4H J anuai T> Mrs. Hunter went up in 
 A IS the elevator to the fifth story of the 
 
 K>~V\^ffi Grant House. She talked to the boy in 
 the lift, and spoke a pleasant word to 
 the maid she met in the corridor. She was liked in 
 the hotel, as she was apt to be by people who saw but 
 little of her. 
 
 She found the room unpleasantly warm, and what 
 she called "stuffy." She threw up a sash, cast a 
 shawl over her shoulders, and, refreshed by the in- 
 flow of cold air, sat down. She liked to sit in the 
 night at an open window, and now looked up at 
 the sparkling stars over the snow-covered roofs, felt 
 the crisp dry air, and heard the murmur of city life. 
 The stars seemed far, the world of men and action 
 near and familiar. Again she fell to day-dreaming 
 of the life she desired. These imaginative antici- 
 pations were becoming more efficient as supplying 
 motives than Lucretia knew. 
 
 She shut the window, made ready for the night, 
 and, lying down at ease in dressing-gown and slip- 
 pers, fell under the spell of a clever novelist. But 
 after a few moments she remembered something, and 
 rose to get a forgotten essay by John Fairthorne
 
 224 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 on "Colonial Finances." He ceased to write after 
 a historian had criticized this essay as wanting in 
 method and inexact. Mrs. Hunter had asked leave 
 to read it. 
 
 "He must once have been able," she thought; "it 
 hardly deserved the attack upon it." 
 
 As she heard her brother enter his room, which 
 adjoined her own, she half rose, and then, changing 
 her mind, lay down again, having certain things to 
 consider. Success had given new hopes of larger 
 success. At first Kitty was to be a profitable ac- 
 quaintance, an introducer to opportunities. These, 
 as they came, proved to be of easy use. She had 
 thought of John Fairthorne more as a venture than 
 as a probably available investment for her powers 
 of capture. He was so easily managed as to make 
 her feel what a chance his age and peculiarities 
 offered. Of course, there had been and would be 
 obstacles. 
 
 She had not yet come directly into collision with 
 Archer. Was it necessary? No, not unless he 
 proved to be in her way, and she must not be hasty. 
 She knew that without cause she often crossed people. 
 Kitty she controlled absolutely, and twice had taken 
 her to a spiritualist meeting, where she had been im- 
 pressed by the agreeable predictions of a very ami- 
 able spirit. Mary Fairthorne had remained haughty 
 and coldly civil, but, as Lucretia saw, watchful. If 
 only she were ill or could be worried into leaving a 
 clear field ! She played with the idea of drugs and 
 chronic illness, well aware that she was a creature
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 225 
 
 of small devices without the courage of such crime 
 as involves dangerous consequences. 
 
 Meanwhile, John Fairthorne was generous, and 
 she at ease except as concerned Lionel and the fu- 
 ture. Circumstance had so far done very little to 
 help her. She smiled, pleased at what her skill had 
 won. If only she could become so necessary as to be 
 more urgently asked to live in the Fairthorne house ! 
 She had said no, with some politic fear of resistance 
 on the part of Mary, who had by degrees given up 
 to Lucretia much that she had hitherto considered 
 duty. Would she care to resist a larger invasion? 
 Mrs. Hunter had no liking for a stand-up fight. 
 Well, something might turn up to help her. Again 
 she rose. Why was Lionel so quiet? She opened 
 the door between their rooms, and stood still. He 
 was asleep. What was that? She stood listening. 
 Suddenly she heard noises, shouts, cries of "Fire! 
 Fire!" 
 
 Quick steps went by her room. A man beat on 
 her door, shouting : ' ' Fire ! Fire ! ' ' She ran to open 
 it. Two rats ran down the hall. Thin ribbons of 
 smoke crawled slowly out of crack and crevice, mys- 
 terious, gray, and soon with swift increase. People 
 passed by her, dressed, half dressed, carrying clothes. 
 A woman dragging a huge trunk out of a room 
 begged her to help. One pulled along two screaming 
 children. For an instant Mrs. Hunter did not credit 
 the danger. Of a sudden the smoke thickened and 
 swayed to and fro. 
 
 She ran back into her room, seized, as she passed, 
 
 15
 
 226 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 a purse from the table and a little jewel-case, and 
 crying wildly, "Lionel! Lionel!" rushed into his 
 room. He was on the bed, dressed and asleep. 
 
 "My God! He is drunk. What shall I do?" 
 She shook him, and at last pulled him out of bed, so 
 that he fell heavily to the floor. 
 
 Meanwhile, without, the tumult of terror rose, and 
 the smoke crawled in the open transom and floated 
 in gray masses along the ceiling. Lionel moaned : 
 "What is it?" 
 
 She threw over his head the pitcherful of water. 
 He sat up, clutching at her, at the bed. Half mad- 
 dened and strong in her despair, she shook him 
 fiercely and aided him to stand. He lurched against 
 her, crying: "You let me alone. What 's the 
 matter?" 
 
 She tore open the door and dragged him, reeling, 
 into the corridor. It was filled with curling, dense 
 smoke, warm and suffocating. She stood an instant, 
 appalled. More people went past ; a dog whined and 
 ran by her. The first breath nearly suffocated her. 
 She saw the gas-jets flaring in yellow halos. The 
 smoke, the coughing something sobered Craig. He 
 tried to get away. A man struck against them, and 
 all three fell. The man got up cursing and fled. For 
 a moment Lucretia could neither see nor speak. She 
 lay on her face gasping, stretching out vain hands 
 to find her brother. Lying thus the smoke was less 
 felt. She crawled about, groping, calling hoarsely: 
 
 "Lionel! .Oh, Lionel!" Not for a moment did 
 she think of deserting him. 
 
 The smoke grew hot. She was alone. She stood
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 227 
 
 up and pitched against the wall, dazed and half 
 blinded. She staggered here and there, voiceless, still 
 searching, trying to call Lionel, the slave to one de- 
 sire, lost for the time to all thought of self-preser- 
 vation. An instant later she was aware of the stair- 
 case, down which she stumbled, clutching at the rail. 
 She tried to go up again, but dropped on her knees. 
 The smoke above grew ruddy, the fire, swooping up 
 the elevator, flashed in scarlet tongues of flame over- 
 head, along the floor she had left. And still she per- 
 sisted trying to reascend the stairs, until fragments 
 of window-curtains fell blazing about her. 
 
 ' ' He is dead ! He is dead ! My Lionel, my boy ! ' ' 
 she moaned in a hollow voice, and, beating out the 
 fire on the burning edge of her wrapper, she went 
 reeling, half choked, down the stairway. 
 
 How she got to the floor below she could never 
 have told. The lower stories were already inches 
 deep in the water which was pouring down the stair- 
 way. Her feet were wet, her hands, slightly burned, 
 were tingling with pain. She was coughing and 
 gasping for breath. The firemen ran to and fro. 
 She fell over a great hose, pulsing with the throb 
 of distant engines. A fireman picked her up on the 
 first floor and carried her down to the flooded hall, 
 where he left her on a lounge. The water was drip- 
 ping through the ceiling in an irregular, yellow, ill- 
 smelling rain. Most of the inmates of the house 
 were already out. 
 
 Lucretia lay for a time, unable to speak or move. 
 Then she sat up and looked about her. One or two 
 people were distractedly refusing to go, and one, a
 
 228 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 woman, was held by a policeman, whom she struck 
 in her anguish, screaming out: 
 
 "Joe! Joe! He is up there !" 
 
 A man ran to her and said: 
 
 ' ' I am Joe ! Look, I am Joe. ' ' 
 
 "No," she cried, "you are not Joe," and was car- 
 ried out. 
 
 A police captain came up to Lucretia as she sat 
 moaning and rocking back and forth. 
 
 "Come," he said, "let me carry you. Every one 
 is out." 
 
 "No, no; Lionel he is lost!" 
 
 A clerk came up, loaded with ledgers. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Craig? He 's out long ago. He got 
 out among the first. I gave him a drink. ' ' 
 
 "Are you sure?" she cried, hoarsely. 
 
 "Why, yes. He said you were out, too." 
 
 "Take me," she said faintly; "a carriage the 
 Lapierre House. Are you sure he is out?" 
 
 "Yes; he is all right." 
 
 The policeman lifted her in his arms and went out. 
 The sky was a dome of glowing smoke. The street, 
 kept free by ropes and a line of police, was aflood 
 with slush. The engines spouted black, spark- 
 lighted smoke. She saw dimly a man on a ladder 
 overhead, and the flare of scarlet on the red-brick 
 houses and the icicles, for the cold was intense. She 
 saw, but lay sobbing in the arms of the sturdy officer. 
 
 "It 's all right," he said; "he 's safe, sure 
 enough." 
 
 Her one only thought for the time was : 
 
 ' ' He deserted me. He left me to die. Oh, Lionel ! ' '
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 229 
 
 They went under the lifted rope and through the 
 crowd. The theaters were not yet out, and a car- 
 riage was easily found. The clerk had thrown a 
 blanket around her. She drew it closer, shivering. 
 Lionel was the only person for whom she ever made 
 kindly excuses. He would never have done it, she 
 said, if he had been sober. And he never was so- 
 so like this before. It was hardly true, but she be- 
 lieved it or made believe to do so, and was comforted. 
 She began to think. 
 
 "Ah!" she cried, and, leaning out of the window, 
 called to the driver: "No, not the Lapierre. South 
 Fourth Street, above Spruce. I will stop you at the 
 house." She was still giddy and coughing. At 
 John Fairthorne's house she called out: 
 
 "Here, stop. Come back to-morrow. You shall 
 have five dollars. Ring ring the bell." 
 
 It was hardly ten o'clock. She leaped out as the 
 hall door opened, and, running up the steps, went 
 past the amazed old servant, and, seeing Kitty, 
 said: 
 
 "It is I Lucretia. The hotel took fire. I am I 
 am burned. I am cold. There was not a bed in 
 the hotels. I had to come here." Then she fell on 
 her knees and rolled over on the floor. 
 
 How much was real and how much of it acted 
 were hard to say. Kitty was useless in emergen- 
 cies, but the servants, putting her aside, carried 
 Mrs. Hunter up-stairs and very soon supplied her 
 with warm garments, a good fire, and, what most she 
 needed, bed. 
 
 Kitty sat by her side, really sorry, and suggesting
 
 230 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 a variety of means of relief for the lightly scorched 
 hands. At last Mrs. Hunter, a strong and healthy 
 woman, said hoarsely : 
 
 "Now go to bed, dear. I have lost all my clothes. 
 You will have to keep me a day or two. Get me a 
 doctor to-morrow. These hands will want some- 
 thing. No, not to-night; and no, dear, not Dr. 
 Archer. That nice old man. Oh, Dr. Soper. Lovely 
 name! And, dear, when you tell your uncle, do 
 make him understand how it all was, and that I hope 
 I did not disturb him." 
 
 "Oh, no. He never hears." 
 
 "Good night, Katherine." 
 
 When Kitty went down-stairs she met Mary, who 
 had just returned from her sister's and was ques- 
 tioning the servants. She asked what had hap- 
 pened, and was told the story in a rather confused 
 way. 
 
 "No room in hotels?" said Mary, reflectively. 
 
 1 * Not one. Was n 't it terrible ? Was n 't it awful ? 
 And so embarrassing for poor Lucretia!" 
 
 Mary said it was, and went up-stairs. 
 
 "I believe," she said to herself, "that woman set 
 the hotel on fire." Then she inquired with care 
 whether Mrs. Hunter had a good fire and blankets 
 on her bed. In her own room she sat down in her 
 wrapper and wrote in her diary: 
 
 "January 30. Mrs. Hunter is burned out of her hotel and 
 into our house. I am sure that she arranged it, and as to there 
 being no rooms elsewhere, I should like much to know the truth. 
 The woman will stay ; of that I am sure. If she does, I must 
 have a talk with her. Yes, she will stay."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 231 
 
 Mrs. Hunter, unable to sleep and in a good deal 
 of pain from her hands, was making use of enforced 
 wakefulness to reach a like conclusion as to per- 
 manence of stay. She was in John Fairthorne's 
 house and meant to remain. What she most wanted 
 in life for a time was precisely the luxurious ease 
 of her present surroundings. How neat it all was, 
 how comfortable! And what next? Money, in 
 some way. She might end by marrying the old 
 man, but she knew him well enough to doubt if he 
 would do that in a clandestine way, and if not and 
 she could persuade him to an open marriage there 
 would arise difficulties a difficulty. No, that would 
 not do. She knew his personal self-esteem, his pride 
 of race. 
 
 "Well," she said, "I must wait and see. I have 
 had a bit of luck, and at all events it is deliciously 
 comfortable here." By and by she fell into a sleep 
 troubled by dreams, in which she was trapped by 
 fire and saw Lionel, far off, laughing.
 
 XXIV 
 
 Mrs. Lucretia Hunter, with the 
 wisdom of her kind, chose for her 
 physician Dr. Soper, it was not for her 
 burned hands alone. They were pain- 
 ful, but were not deeply injured. She 
 well knew what Sydney Archer would say if she 
 were to ask him, "How soon can I be moved?" 
 
 Thomas Soper, M.D., was also LL.D. of some re- 
 mote little Western college whose president he had 
 once attended when that official was taken ill in the 
 city. The doctor was a childless widower of ad- 
 vanced middle age, described by mothers as a safe 
 physician and by himself as a man who kept up to 
 the times but never tried experiments. Sydney 
 Archer said he never did anything else. 
 
 He was plump, rosy, and lived behind a perpetual 
 smile. At limitless ease about himself and all the 
 problems of the medical life, he was a fair example 
 of what an average mind, the amiability of selfish- 
 ness, and fairly good manners may attain in a pro- 
 fession where men who are not of great force fail or 
 succeed as they are judged by the voice of the nur- 
 sery. Dr. Soper was not a man's doctor, but this 
 did not trouble him. He was as busy as he desired 
 to be, but had no hospital appointment and only one 
 232
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 233 
 
 source of discontent: that, although of mature age, 
 he was not called upon for consultations. 
 
 When he sat down at Mrs. Hunter's bedside and 
 she said, feebly: 
 
 "How good of you to come early!" he returned: 
 
 "Do not mention it. I am heartily at your ser- 
 vice. And do not dwell on the horrors of your es- 
 cape. Miss Katherine has told me. Ah, the poor 
 little hands! Bless me, how small they are!" He 
 took out his watch. "Ah, the pulse is not bad; a 
 little irregular; you are paying the cost which a 
 sensitive organization exacts." This was a favorite 
 and successful phrase. "Might I see your tongue? 
 Good ! And your throat ? A trifle irritated, of 
 course. Nothing serious ; you will be up to-morrow. ' ' 
 
 Lucretia had no such intention. She murmured, 
 in a husky voice : 
 
 "I fear not. My chest aches, and I have a pain 
 in my side. Rest is always my best remedy." 
 
 "Certainly, you may be right. An intelligent 
 woman's opinion as to herself always has weight 
 with me always. I should say keep quiet, and in 
 a day or two we shall see." 
 
 "Thank you," she returned; "it hurts me to 
 speak, and please come in this evening. It does 
 make one feel so safe." 
 
 He said he would, and ordered a soothing cough- 
 syrup and a dressing for the hands. The latter she 
 used. The syrup she did not. She had no belief 
 in doctors, bad or good. At her rare need, she took 
 certain of what she called Indian remedies, or credu- 
 lously intrusted herself to what she had learned in
 
 234 CIRCUMSTANCE / 
 
 \/ 
 
 New England to call "mind cure." In fact, even 
 about religion she had no honest belief, but cher- 
 ished a number of superstitions which she kept care- 
 fully hidden. 
 
 Mary was decently grieved at the grave account 
 Dr. Soper gave, and was therefore a little surprised 
 when, on the fourth day, Mrs. Hunter, reclothed, ap- 
 peared with still bandaged hands in Mr. Fairthorne 's 
 library. Lucretia, despite her vigor, had suffered 
 too gravely from physical and emotional shock not 
 to show it. 
 
 Mary rose as the secretary came in, gave her a 
 chair, and said something of her recent escape. She 
 was struck, as she looked at her, by the pallor of 
 her face and the still reddened setting of her dark 
 iris. It added to the singularity of her gaze, which 
 had the steadiness of the unwinking eyes of baby- 
 hood. It meant little, but some people disliked it. 
 
 Mary had been busy with her uncle's morning 
 mail. When she expressed civilly, but coldly, her 
 pleasure at Mrs. Hunter's prompt recovery, she was 
 graciously thanked in turn. John Fairthorne said : 
 "I am glad to have you back again." He spoke 
 very little of her peril and illness, but was certainly 
 pleased to see her, having missed the incessant atten- 
 tion, the adroit flattery, the devotional attitude. No 
 one else had ever so fully risen to the level of his 
 self-appreciation, and Mrs. Hunter, unlike Kitty, 
 knew when to be demonstrative. He said, with for 
 him unusual want of courtesy : 
 
 "Now, Mary, you will have the freedom you like. 
 Lucretia will go over the rest of the letters."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 235 
 
 Mary flushed. She was hurt and angry. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter was about to say, "No, no," and to 
 excuse herself for the time, but the liking to exert 
 power overcame the wiser impulse. She said: "I 
 shall be glad to relieve Miss Fairthorne. She has so 
 many outside duties." 
 
 Mary walked out of the room without a word. She 
 met Kitty on the stairs. 
 
 "Is n't it nice to have Lucretia well so soon?" 
 said Kitty. 
 
 "Don't speak of her," said Mary. "She is an 
 underhand sycophant. I should like to kill her ! ' ' 
 
 Kitty was shocked and passed up-stairs speech- 
 less, while her cousin went by her. Mary had meant 
 to attend to certain household duties, but could 
 not yet quiet herself enough to face the old black 
 servants. She turned into the dimly lighted draw- 
 ing-room, sat down, put her face in her hands, and V^ 
 began to cry, an uncommon thing for her. 
 
 John Fairthorne had been in the place of a father 
 to her since her later childhood. He had been, in 
 his better days, an intelligent companion, and, if 
 not always kind, in the past had been courteous, 
 if not considerate. When during the war Madge 
 married, and after it their mother died, Mary had 
 gone to live with her uncle. She was then a girl of / 
 fourteen. He had managed her modest estate with 
 fidelity. That he was selfish she knew; that he ex- 
 acted from her work which was often distasteful was 
 also true; but she owed him much. As she said 
 aloud: "I will not be driven out," Dr. Archer en- 
 tered. She looked up, and hastily dried her tears.
 
 236 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Oh, Miss Fairthorne," he said, "what is the 
 matter?" The evident trouble in the face of this 
 tall woman, usually so self-contained, affected him 
 in a way he was unprepared for. There was more 
 of the child than the woman in her reply, for tears 
 sometimes make us very young. 
 
 "Ask Kitty," she said, and then, "No, no. Go 
 
 away, please. I am a mere child. I let that woman 
 
 hurt me. Me ! Now do not say I am hysterical ; I 
 
 \J won't stand it." She was close to that state of 
 
 unrule. 
 
 "Miss Mary," he said, gently, "we are old friends. 
 Can I in any way help you?" A great tenderness 
 came over him as he spoke. He understood how ele- 
 mental must be the passion which so shook this whole- 
 some girl. She was silent, now doubly wrought 
 upon, and not yet in full command of herself. He 
 took her hand and said : 
 
 "Please not to cry. You must not." 
 
 She drew away from him, trembling, and said : 
 
 "I wish you would go away." 
 
 "I will," he said, "if you wish it." 
 
 She was becoming afraid. 
 
 "Do you hear?" she cried, sharply. "Go and 
 talk to Kitty. Go anywhere." 
 
 He stood still a moment, a little hurt, a little puz- 
 zled, and saying only: "I most honestly wish I could 
 help you," left her alone. 
 
 MRS. HUNTER, in possession of pleasant quarters, 
 was readily induced to stay, and took up again her 
 duties as secretary. At first she was positive as to
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 237 
 
 not remaining, but Fairthorne was as decided, and 
 would not hear of her going. No one else was con- 
 sulted. Kitty was pleased, and Mary, after one 
 stormy talk with her uncle, was silent. 
 
 With her usual explanatory way of excusing 
 Lionel, Lucretia accepted his abject apology for his 
 conduct and for having lost her in the smoke. She 
 said little, but was glad that the fright served for 
 a time to keep him sober, so that he ceased to be a 
 source of annoyance to Grace's head clerk. 
 
 Mr. Pilgrim was still in the Kanawha country, 
 and, as he wrote, was likely to be detained there for 
 a month or two. Fortune smiled on Lucretia, and 
 the lost wardrobe had been amply replaced by the 
 help of a check the size of which would have sur- 
 prised Mrs. Swanwick and made Miss Kitty jealous.
 
 XXV 
 
 C R. GRACE, of late years a very delib- 
 erate man, usually acted with decision 
 when once he had reached a conclu- 
 sion. He had been kept a little uneasy 
 by the financial outlook, but it affected 
 him far less than the fact that his cook had an- 
 nounced her approaching marriage. This chanced 
 a few days after Mrs. Swanwick had given him 
 advice. 
 
 About five on a winter afternoon he rang at the 
 door of the Misses Markham. He was by no means 
 sure as to what he would do. It was a reconnais- 
 sance brought about by his cook's folly and Mrs. 
 Swanwick 's urgent counsel. 
 
 He was shown into the front parlor, and saw, in 
 the dim light, two little ladies. They sat beside 
 a small table, and by the light of what used to be 
 called an astral lamp were industriously engaged. 
 Miss Clementina, blushing, hastily concealed from 
 the male gaze an undergarment which she was mend- 
 ing, Miss Letitia put aside her tatting, and both 
 bade him good evening. 
 
 "I am Mr. Grace," he said, and then, with busi- 
 nesslike directness, "I hear, Miss Markham, that 
 your house is empty. I am considering the advisa- 
 238
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 239 
 
 bility of taking the entire house, and of asking you 
 to provide for me. I live simply, and my man- 
 servant will wait on me. The terms are unimpor- 
 tant. I should like to come at once. May I see the 
 house ? ' ' 
 
 Almost instantly on entering he had been attracted 
 by the room, the women, the old-time serenity of the 
 place. It was unlike any boarding-house he had 
 ever seen. He had decided. 
 
 The two ladies in gray silk listened until he ceased. 
 
 "Mrs. Swanwick has spoken of this matter, Mr. 
 Grace," said Letitia. "Our old friend Mr. Wilson 
 has left us, and it is true that we have been in the 
 habit of receiving guests for a compensation." 
 
 "We like to call them guests," said Clementina. 
 
 "Sister!" said Miss Markham. 
 
 "Excuse me, Letitia." 
 
 "I will put on paper and send to Mr. Grace what 
 it is pleasanter to say thus. ' ' 
 
 "Mr. Grace will comprehend," said Clementina, 
 "that, being alone in an unfashionable neighbor- 
 hood, we find it agreeable to have one or two gen- 
 tlemen." 
 
 "Single gentlemen," said Letitia. 
 
 "Well, I am very single," returned Grace, smil- 
 ing. "I give no trouble. When I have one or two 
 men to dine in my sitting-room I can order dinner 
 from the club." 
 
 "I fear we could not allow that," said Letitia. 
 
 "No, we could not," added Miss Clementina; "it 
 would hurt Susan's feelings." 
 
 "And who is Susan, may I ask?"
 
 240 CIKCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Our old black cook. We really could not." 
 
 Grace began to understand. He was both amused 
 and pleased. 
 
 "We shall not quarrel as to that," he said. 
 
 "Susan's terrapin," said the younger Miss Mark- 
 ham, "has always been considered remarkable." 
 
 "That is mere detail, Clementina," 
 
 "But, Letitia, we could not turn away Mr. Blount. 
 He has an attic." 
 
 "On no account," returned Mr. Grace. "I know 
 Mr. Blount. But I shall want the whole second and 
 third stories, and to dine alone. My man will live 
 elsewhere. ' ' 
 
 "Excuse us, but do you smoke cigars, Mr. Grace?" 
 said Letitia, gravely. He said he did. Letitia 
 thought that serious, but was of opinion that this 
 might be passed over because he would be careful. 
 Young men never were. And would Clementina show 
 him the house? The order and cleanliness of the 
 ample old paneled rooms, and, above all, Miss Clem- 
 entina's modest depreciation of what they had to 
 offer, delighted him, and, like Blount, he saw here 
 the kindly promise of a home. 
 
 When that night he received Miss Markham's let- 
 ter he at once accepted her terms and sent a check 
 in advance for the first quarter. Miss Letitia said 
 it was a liberty, but Clementina thought they might 
 pass it over as it was the first time. 
 
 "What pleasant, old-fashioned folk!" he said to 
 Margaret Swan wick. ' ' I cannot thank you enough. ' ' 
 
 "Yes," she said; "they are gentlewomen, and 
 have suffered sadly."
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 241 
 
 "But why," he asked, "does Miss Clementina 
 dress like an old lady? She cannot be over thirty, 
 and Miss Letitia is at least forty-five and quite gray. 
 Miss Clementina is pretty. They both look tired." 
 
 "Yes, the dear little lady thinks that it is, as she 
 says, nice to dress like Letitia, and makes Letitia 
 feel younger. I often tell her I should like to order 
 her gowns. I did not say to you how very poor, 
 and yet how touchy they are as to being helped." 
 
 "I guessed it. I have told them I always burn 
 wood in my rooms, and ordered enough to last all 
 winter." 
 
 "You will have to be careful. They won't like 
 it if you begin in that sort of lavish fashion. ' ' 
 
 "I saw that. And they have no gas in the house. 
 'It is unhealthy,' said Miss Letitia, 'and dangerous.' 
 I had to yield." 
 
 Mrs. Swanwick laughed. 
 
 "You will be mildly and firmly governed, and I 
 do assure you it is good training for a future state. ' ' 
 
 "A future state?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. Not there here on this earth here." 
 
 "Not I," he said. 
 
 16
 
 XXVI 
 
 |ONG afterward Mary Fairthorne de- 
 clared that the only thing which kept 
 her sane that winter was her afternoon 
 rides. These the constancy of cold 
 with sunshine favored, and indeed they 
 
 were much needed. In February Mary wrote in 
 
 her diary: 
 
 "Mohammed was right when he said, 'Good humor is the 
 bride of the rider.' It helps me wonderfully. Kit is lost to me, 
 and more than ever needs me. I have hardly any home duties 
 left. I live a narrowing life of fretful complaints from Kitty, 
 and reasonable complaints from the servants. The house is full 
 of unrest and suspicion. It is hard to see my way. I know only 
 this : I will not be maneuvered out or driven out. The woman 
 is astonishing, and I am simply a boarder." 
 
 It was true. She was almost without influence 
 or power of control. Lucretia had become more es- 
 sential to Fairthorne than any of his family. The 
 machinery of the old man's subjection was simple. 
 Miss Mary made it "hard" for her, said Lucretia. 
 How could she bear it, when she could so easily find 
 work and peace elsewhere? On this he was sure to 
 become excited. Should he speak to Mary? No, 
 no; it would make things worse. Then there were 
 tears. No, she would never leave him. 
 
 As time went on, Mary retired from useless battle. 
 242
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 243 
 
 Margaret brought Jack to the house no more than 
 she could avoid, and Harry came only on business. 
 Their friends, resentful of this alien rule, unwisely 
 ceased to visit the old man, and he was left more 
 and more to the society of Lucretia. He made no 
 complaint. She was amply, patiently competent to 
 keep him amused, and might have rested at ease 
 except for the inexplicable pleasure she found in 
 petty tyrannies which were really detrimental to the 
 ultimate plans she never ceased to keep in view. 
 
 As Mary ceased to resist, she turned upon Archer. 
 She had driven out the nieces; she had narrowed 
 John Fairthorne's world to the few who could not 
 or would not be denied access. Her success had been 
 all that she could wish, but Lionel had failed her. 
 Kitty's mind was elsewhere, and for once was stable. 
 Beyond the attainment of comfort and ease, Lucre- 
 tia had been disappointed. Mrs. Swanwick would 
 none of her, and the staid society of the old 
 town, with its set ways and indifference to wealth, 
 surprised her. She was socially inclined and at 
 her best a gay companion, but here the houses she 
 would have liked to enter were closed to her. She 
 bitterly resented it. 
 
 "What Mary Fairthorne thought of the situation 
 she now and then confided to her diary: 
 
 " This woman disturbs me. She has, I think, some silly idea 
 that those queerly set eyes affect me. I met her suddenly at 
 dusk yesterday with Felisa, the cat, on her shoulder. Certainly 
 she looked like an evil witch. She was evidently posing. I 
 laughed and said I hoped I had not startled her. She did not 
 like it. Why does she dress in black and yellow f I wish I 
 knew her history."
 
 244 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 She was walking her horse as she thought over 
 this record and was wondering how it would all end. 
 Hearing hoofs behind her, she turned and saw Syd- 
 ney Archer, also on horseback. Her face lighted up 
 with welcome as he joined her. He rarely rode 
 during his busy winter, but, as he now said, the 
 glory of the winter sun had tempted him. "I am 
 twice rewarded, Miss Mary." She was joyously 
 happy to have this man at her side. 
 
 "What luck!" she said. "I was gloomily busy, 
 thinking over what you know too well the distracted 
 state of my uncle's house." 
 
 "Yes," he returned, "I do know it well. I have 
 seen this sort of thing before oh, more than once. 
 But what can you do? If Mr. Fairthorne were 
 worse we could simply take command. He is more 
 excitable and is slowly becoming weaker, but men- 
 tally he is as clear as ever, with an intensification 
 of all his peculiarities his half-hidden pride of 
 race, his dislike of contradiction, his closeness about 
 little expenditures, and, what is rare in age, his will- 
 ingness to give away money in larger sums. Really, 
 he is a singular character. But age is fast chang- 
 ing him. He is not the John Fairthorne of middle 
 life." 
 
 "Yes, that is true. Mr. Pilgrim once said that he 
 wondered which of us would wake up in the world 
 to come." 
 
 "Which? "he asked. 
 
 "Yes; shall we awake old or young? We are in 
 life several people. That is his wisdom, not mine ; 
 but the thought of what my uncle was and is re- 
 called it."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 245 
 
 "It was like Pilgrim. In fact, the situation is 
 full of danger. Do not underrate this woman. She 
 is no common schemer. She may marry him." 
 
 "Good gracious!" 
 
 "I do not think she will. When last she asked 
 me if he were likely to live long I said he might live 
 ten years and he may, but he will not. It made 
 her thoughtful, I saw that. She was reflecting upon 
 the prospect. Something is worrying her." 
 
 "Do you see through everybody in that way?" 
 asked Mary. 
 
 "Oh, it is a mere guess. You put yourself in the 
 place of another, and 'there you are.' " 
 
 "You are dangerously clear-sighted," she said. 
 
 "Oh! The art has its limitations. If I should 
 try now to think of what is in your mind I should 
 fail." The woman turned her face away, feeling 
 herself flush, and touched her horse with the spur. 
 In a moment Archer was cantering at her side again. 
 She laughed as she called to him : 
 
 "Have the kindness to keep your insight for Mrs. 
 Hunter. Is n't this lowland country interesting?" 
 They were now on the road which led to Greenwich 
 Point. "Over the river yonder is Red Bank, where 
 the Hessians and Count Donap failed, and this in 
 front is League Island. You must see it in the 
 spring. It is like Holland then, and only needs a 
 few windmills." She went on talking more rap- 
 idly than usual, while he watched her with a certain 
 discomposure he could not have explained. She 
 went back to the question she had asked. 
 
 "To see through people must be valuable in your 
 profession. I envy you its science, its variety of
 
 246 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 human contacts, the feeling that you are helping 
 people. ' ' 
 
 "Well," he said, "Miss Mary, it is as I see it the 
 best line of human endeavor." 
 
 "And you give," she said, "so much to the hos- 
 pitals, to the poor not as others give, mere money, 
 but hours and days of life, of thought. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, as to that," he returned, "it gets to be too 
 habitual to afford nourishment to a fellow's self- 
 approval. ' ' 
 
 "But that is the finest thing about it," she cried. 
 "I hate to hear a doctor complain, like old Dr. 
 Soper." 
 
 "And yet," said Archer, "he has had success." 
 
 "But men on the front bench do not complain; 
 or do they ? ' ' 
 
 "No; but he is not on the front bench," laughed 
 Archer. "By the way, talking of these matters re- 
 minds me to say that Miss Morrow's rector, Knell- 
 wood, is ill. Grace asked me to see him yesterday. 
 He was in a second-class boarding-house, in a room 
 that would make you shudder. There was hardly 
 space to move in it. The furniture was shabby, the 
 floor and chairs were littered with books and papers, 
 the whole place was incredibly uncared for. It was 
 cold, with a feeble escape of warm air from a regis- 
 ter, and really the man had not blankets enough to 
 keep him warm." 
 
 "How dreadful! Harry says he has a very good 
 property. I suppose that he actually starves him- 
 self that he may feed and help the poor. I do wish 
 I liked him better. It seems really wrong not to 
 like him."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 247 
 
 "If you are at all like me, Miss Mary, you will 
 have long ago ceased wrestling with your likes and 
 dislikes. ' ' 
 
 "I never can. But what can we do for him?" 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Grace always asks and usually answers 
 that question. He carried him off at once to the 
 Misses Markham's. You should have seen their dis- 
 may, and then how Letitia and Clementina went down 
 before Grace's decisiveness. Miss Letitia confided to 
 me that she should not mind, except that Clementina 
 was so easily influenced, and really, his religious 
 views, and so on you can imagine it all. I repre- 
 sented that even a mild attack of typhoid would ren- 
 der him harmless. The fun of it is that Roger 
 Grace, who likes the big preacher and thinks his 
 doctrines abominable, vows that he will keep him 
 there and feed him like a decent Christian. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I tremble for Clementina, ' ' laughed Mary. ' ' Let 
 us gallop ; here is a good bit of road. ' ' 
 
 As they turned their horses for a homeward walk, 
 Archer said : 
 
 "A word more about Mrs. Hunter. I am being 
 endlessly pestered by her interference. I shall fight 
 it out, of course ; I said I would. I see that you 
 are troubled ; let me, as an old friend, ask you not 
 to conjure up all manner of things not likely to 
 happen." 
 
 "I do, I do," she said. "I sometimes think her 
 wicked enough for anything. Margaret is never 
 tired of quoting what Mr. Pilgrim said, that people 
 with too much imagination pile up mountains and 
 then have to climb over them." 
 
 ' ' Rather elaborate, that. ' '
 
 248 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "No; it is true as far as I am concerned." 
 
 "A queer type of man," said Archer. "So prac- 
 tical in action, so efficient, and so what shall I say? 
 So fond of the mystical." 
 
 "Yes, his talk is often too indistinct for me. I 
 hear they are having trouble about those coal-mines. 
 Harry showed my uncle yesterday a letter about 
 them and Mr. Pilgrim's difficulties." 
 
 As they rode up Swanson Street and past the old 
 Gloria Dei Church, he said: 
 
 "Miss Fairthorne, you are very fine medicine for a 
 busy man. It is good to be made to forget for a time. 
 But I must make haste now. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Thank you. I ride nearly every day, and always 
 here. " As he rode away, she said to herself : 
 
 "I wish I had not said that."
 
 XXVII 
 
 Miss Fairthorne was troubled in mind 
 and heart, Mrs. Hunter had, too, her 
 share of anxieties. Lionel had been so 
 good of late that she had begun to feel 
 there must be enough wrong to make 
 him afraid to confess, for usually when it was a 
 question of money he was anything but reserved. 
 She was right. He had, in fact, been speculating 
 in a small way, and had had the usual first luck of 
 the fool. He was living in the center of a vast 
 business, and was getting used to seeing this enor- 
 mous flow of checks, notes, and gold. The abun- 
 dance and the seeming ease of it all might have 
 tempted a man whose only honesty was the child of 
 fear, had it not been for the perfection of the safe- 
 guarding mechanism, which, even to his small mind, 
 seemed to be perilously certain. Just now he owed 
 an importunate broker a small sum of money, not 
 over two hundred dollars. His sister had recently 
 been less indulgent than usual, and had told him that 
 he had thrown away chances. He had said in reply 
 that Kitty Morrow did not "amuse" him, and that 
 it was "all no good." In fact, it had never been 
 otherwise. He was essentially vulgar, and even 
 249
 
 250 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Kitty's uncritical taste could not stand it. At this 
 time the devil set for him an easy trap. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter had invited him one afternoon to 
 Mr. Fairthorne's study at a time when its owner was 
 taking his afternoon nap. Lionel, who drew a little 
 and sang a little and did no one thing well, was 
 shown the musical autographs. His sister set be- 
 fore him with pride the catalogue she was making, 
 and then the large portfolio in which were the auto- 
 graphs of Gluck, Mozart, Handel, and others. 
 
 "This will please you," she said, "you who love 
 music. You may look them over. I will be back 
 in a minute. I left my desk unlocked. ' ' 
 
 He turned over the collection in a languid way. 
 Nothing interested him until he noticed the cost 
 prices set down on the covers. One, an autograph 
 of Beethoven, surprised him, as he was absolutely 
 ignorant of the absurd value attained by such manu- 
 script. He read : 
 
 "Bought of Donaldson & Co., London, June 9, 1855. See 
 Annesly's Catalogue, No. 73, 1849, p. 9. Value, $700. Sold at 
 Van Gliick's sale for 110." 
 
 A thief of intelligence would have reflected be- 
 fore taking a document which must have been so well 
 known to collectors. He had hardly a moment of 
 hesitation. Neither he nor his sister had the moral 
 mechanism we speak of as conscience. In her its 
 function was partially replaced by a variety of con- 
 straining or restraining motives which had nothing 
 to do with the act in question's being wrong or right.
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 251 
 
 Her brother was the unintelligent slave of impulse, 
 and had too little imagination to serve him by predict- 
 ing unpleasant results. He had been guilty of small 
 thefts when at college and had escaped detection. 
 The dog who steals a chop gives no more thought to 
 it than Lionel Craig gave to his theft when he but- 
 toned his waistcoat over the precious autograph of 
 Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. He closed the port- 
 folio, picked up the nearest volume, and was glancing 
 at the sketches of trees in old Gilpin's delightful 
 book ''Remarks on Forest Scenery," when his sister 
 returned. 
 
 "I thought I should find you lost in those Schu- 
 bert songs, you who sing so well. I should not have 
 thought you would prefer a book. That is a favor- 
 ite of Mr. Fairthorne 's. He is fond of trees. You 
 must go out with me some day and see the country 
 place. ' ' 
 
 He said that would be very pleasant, and, unea- 
 sily desirous to get away, rose as she replaced the 
 portfolio. 
 
 The fourth day after Lionel had stolen the auto- 
 graph Mrs. Hunter and Mr. Fairthorne were recon- 
 sidering and he reconsidered a great deal a novel 
 method of arranging the musical autographs. In 
 his youth he had played the flute a little and ever 
 after believed himself a good musical critic. Sud- 
 denly, looking up from the portfolio, he said : 
 
 "The Beethoven Symphony is out of place." 
 
 Mrs. Hunter reflected. 
 
 "Miss Mary was showing the autographs to Mrs. 
 Vincent yesterday. It must be here. ' '
 
 252 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Find Mary," he said. "I will not have my 
 papers meddled with. Mary has no sense of order. ' ' 
 
 When his niece appeared, he said: "You have lost 
 my Beethoven autograph. I want it understood once 
 for all that no one but Lucretia is to handle my 
 collection. Where is it?" 
 
 " I do not know. I did not show Mrs. Vincent the 
 musical autographs. She wanted to see the writing 
 of Blake and Poe. I know nothing of these musical 
 papers." 
 
 "I suppose," he said, "I must believe you; and 
 now, I desire to repeat " 
 
 "What ! Stop, sir ! One word more like this, and 
 I go to Margaret's. You will apologize at once at 
 once. ' ' She stood before him, tall, erect, and flushed, 
 with anger in her steady gaze. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter hesitated. A word would complete 
 the mischief and drive out this troublesome girl. 
 She waited a moment too long, for as Mary, turn- 
 ing away, said, "Good-bye, sir," John Fairthorne 
 rose to his feet, and exclaimed : " I was hasty, Mary. 
 You won't leave me. You must pardon the ill tem- 
 per of an old man. Do not go." 
 
 Any admission of age or failure was so foreign 
 to his ordinary habits that Mary's anger of a sud- 
 den fell away to pity. 
 
 "That is enough, uncle." She would have said 
 more had Mrs. Hunter been absent. 
 
 Lucretia spent an unhappy day in search of the 
 lost document. When at last Mr. Fairthorne, dis- 
 satisfied, asked who of late had been allowed to see 
 the autographs she suddenly remembered.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 253 
 
 After leaving her uncle, Mary went up to her 
 room, saying, "Could she have taken it?" 
 
 This was unjust, both to Mrs. Hunter 's intelligence 
 and her habits. The margins of the distinctly crimi- 
 nal she knew well enough, but there temptation 
 ceased, subdued by the fear of results. She was cold- 
 blooded and passionless, but if she loved at all, or if 
 what grief she now felt were the outcome of attach- 
 ment rather than affection, Lionel Craig was the only 
 man or woman who possessed for her even this slen- 
 der claim on her heart. There are women capable 
 of keeping up one such relation at a time, and no 
 more. 
 
 She waited that night in Lionel's room until he 
 came in. He had moved again, or rather had 
 been ordered to move, and was now in a shabby 
 hotel, where he could afford a small room on the 
 third floor. He had a fear of fire which haunted his 
 dreams. 
 
 The room was dirty and ill kept. On the walls 
 were pinned photographs of actresses and others, 
 some signed affectionately. In the corner were half 
 a dozen canes. The wash-basin was still full of 
 water. The room smelled of patchouli and tobacco. 
 On the unswept carpet were cigarette ashes. 
 
 Lucretia, a clean, neat creature, saw it all with 
 disgust. She opened a window and wondered 
 whether it were worth while to try any longer to 
 help him. He was startled to find her in his room. 
 She lost no time. 
 
 "Give me those autograph sheets you stole. My 
 heavens! what a fool you are! You might as well
 
 264 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 steal the Koh-i-nur or a great Raphael. No one 
 who knows its value will dare to buy it. Any one 
 who ventured to advertise it would be caught and 
 would tell. Give it to me." 
 
 "I did n't take it," he said. 
 
 "You cannot even lie cleverly. You are sus- 
 pected, and will be arrested." He turned pale and 
 sat down. 
 
 "I have n't got it. I sold it to that man on 
 South Street. I let him have it for eighty dollars 
 because he said he would sell it in Chicago. He 
 would n't give any more. I did the best I could. 
 I had to have money." 
 
 "Oh, Lionel," she cried, "you will ruin us! And 
 \j to rob a man who is so good to me and who made 
 Mr. Grace keep you! It was wicked." 
 
 She did not herself honestly feel what she was 
 x saying, but perhaps Lionel would. He said he might 
 get it back, but that he owed altogether three hun- 
 dred dollars, and how could he pay it? The fear 
 of arrest was her best argument. She repeated it, 
 and at last said that in the morning she would send 
 him a check. And no, she herself would try to 
 recover the autograph, and hoped to be able to warn 
 him in time if the police suspected him as others 
 did. She left him in a state of abject terror. 
 
 When, next morning, Lucretia found the little 
 cripple in his shop on South Street she was not less 
 direct than she had been with Lionel Craig. 
 
 "Let us talk in the back of your shop, Mr. 
 Peachin." He went before her and dusted a stool. 
 
 "No," she said, "I will not sit down. You tried
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 255 
 
 to sell Mr. Fairthorne forged letters of his grand- 
 father. They were well done, but as I urged on Mr. 
 Fairthorne that you were poor and perhaps yourself 
 the ignorant dupe of another he did not take any 
 further steps." 
 
 "I did n't guarantee" 
 
 "Quite true; but you did them yourself, and he 
 could have very seriously troubled you and utterly 
 ruined your business. No matter. We did not fol- 
 low it up. Now some one has stolen from him a 
 musical autograph. It has been traced to you as 
 the receiver. Give it to me." 
 
 He said he had sold it. 
 
 ' ' To whom and for what ? ' ' 
 
 When he declared that he could n't tell she knew 
 that he was lying. 
 
 "Very well; you say that you paid eighty dollars. 
 I am prepared to repay you and ten dollars over. 
 No ? Then, good-bye ; you will hear more of it. ' ' 
 
 When, as had happened before, she was a block 
 away, the cripple hobbled after her. She had of 
 purpose gone slowly. He said: 
 
 "If you will say one hundred you may have it." 
 
 She said, "No," and at last he agreed for ninety 
 dollars, and they went back to the shop. She looked 
 the sheets over. They were all there. The cover 
 Lionel had not taken. She paid in notes. 
 
 "If," she said, "you get any really valuable auto- 
 graphs, let me know. Here is my card. I will drop 
 in now and then. But let this be a lesson to you." 
 
 As she went out, he said : ' ' Are you any relation to 
 the young man who brought me those papers?"
 
 256 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 ' ' Oh, it was a young man, was it ? That is strange. 
 We suspected a young woman. ' ' 
 
 The cripple looked after her. "They 're as like 
 as two peas. ' ' He did not believe in the value stated 
 by Craig, and was well contented. So also was Mrs. 
 Hunter. But she kept her brother usefully uneasy 
 for days. 
 
 When she found the missing music script in the 
 large portfolio of autographs of the signers of the 
 Declaration of Independence, her tearful joy at this 
 discovery was a touching thing to see. 
 
 Meanwhile, she watched the mail, and knew that 
 Mr. Pilgrim was still busy in West Virginia. 
 
 Kitty had long since given up all charge of her 
 uncle and Mrs. Hunter was now the only person 
 to whom Archer could look to execute his orders. 
 It too often happened that what he wished done 
 was not done, and at last he resolved to make a 
 stand. 
 
 One morning, as usual after his visit, Mrs. Hunter 
 waited in the drawing-room to receive his instruc- 
 tions. In place of standing for the brief time his 
 purpose required, Sydney Archer closed the door, 
 and saying, "Sit down, Mrs. Hunter; I want to 
 talk to you," took a seat opposite to her. 
 
 "I am at your service," she returned. "What 
 is it?" 
 
 "I am an old friend of the people of this house." 
 
 "They are fortunate." 
 
 "Pardon me, I want to say certain things without 
 interruption. I am an old friend, and you are a 
 newcomer. You have, no doubt, excellent intentions, 
 but somehow you have been able to obtain a control
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 267 
 
 over Miss Morrow and Mr. Fairthorne which, as I 
 see it, is not wholesome. You will say, perhaps, 
 that it is none of my business. As to John Fair- 
 thorne personally I do not care. Miss Morrow has 
 relatives who should be able to see that no harm 
 comes to her. But through Mr. Fairthorne 's weak- 
 ness you have been able and willing to set aside a 
 woman who unfailingly carried out my orders. That 
 is my complaint. This cannot go on, or ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Hunter smiled meaningly. He understood 
 it, and, a little nettled, continued : " It has hurt her, 
 but what has happened is not alone her concern. It 
 is in part mine. She is naturally the person on 
 whom he should lean. You have thrust her aside, 
 and now, in place of my orders being complied with, 
 I find that you are giving him medicines of your 
 own choosing, or that he is induced to drive out or 
 in one way or another to disregard my wishes. It is 
 useless to go into particulars." 
 
 "Quite useless, Dr. Archer. I have no belief in 
 doctors. It is only necessary for a man of Mr. Fair- 
 thorne 's intelligence to believe intently that pain is 
 not a reality, that we are spiritually powerful to 
 decree the absence of disease. I cannot conscien- 
 tiously stand by and see used what I believe to be 
 hurtful methods." It is probable that she was dis- 
 honest in her statement ; it is quite possible that she 
 was honest. People who have no religion are very 
 likely to feed the human love of mystery with one 
 of the many unwholesome diets of folly. 
 
 Sydney Archer had heard this kind of talk often 
 enough to know that argument was valueless, even 
 had he been inclined to argue. 
 
 17
 
 258 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Frankly," he said, "all these notions and the x 
 books on them are the very apotheosis of the vague. V 
 I have nothing to do with them or your views. I 
 am Mr. Fairthorne's physician, and so long as I am 
 I mean to be obeyed. No, wait a moment more. 
 The thing is simple. I do not know your object in 
 bringing misrule and unhappiness into this house. 
 If you let me and my work alone I shall do nothing 
 to displace or disturb you, or shall warn you if I 
 do. But if you interfere with what I think my duty, 
 take care! That is all." He rose, saying: "I have 
 changed the treatment somewhat, and here are my 
 written directions." 
 
 Mrs. Hunter also stood up and fixing upon him 
 the gaze which some people thought unpleasing was 
 still for a moment. She then said, in a low voice, 
 carefully kept free of angry emphasis: "You mis- 
 take the situation. I have made no effort to live 
 here, or to become Mr. Fairthorne's secretary. It 
 was the accidental result of Miss Morrow's attach- 
 ment. Mr. Fairthorne found that I was able to do 
 certain work, and to do it well. Kitty was too young, 
 Miss Fairthorne was incompetent and careless." 
 Her voice rose; she hated Mary Fairthorne. "If I 
 say that she neglected her uncle, it is his charge, not 
 mine. She has made my duties hard and has treated 
 me with insolence. ' ' 
 
 Archer wished this woman were a man, but he 
 kept, to appearance, the calm of one used to self- 
 command. 
 
 "We are a little off the track," he said. 
 
 "Yes; it is not easy to bear what I have endured
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 259 
 
 and to make no complaint. I shall refer these ques- 
 tions to Mr. Fairthorne." 
 
 "Why not now, at once?" 
 
 "I prefer to consider Mr. Fairthorne more than 
 you seem inclined to do. He is not at all well 
 to-day." 
 
 "Come up-stairs with me," he said. "I am un- 
 willing to let this matter rest here. You may follow 
 me or not, as you like. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I shall do exactly as I please. ' ' 
 
 Archer smiled. There was a vibrant note of vul- 
 garity in the voice that was commonly soft and pleas- 
 ant. He went up-stairs, she following. 
 
 It was, in fact, one of John Fairthorne 's better 
 days. Very little things affected him, for good or 
 ill. Archer had amused him by an account of Mar- 
 tin Blount and Margaret's efforts to instruct him. 
 
 "By George !" he cried, laughing in his old hearty 
 way, "that must be a comical trio, the Presbyterian 
 Grace, that ultimate churchman Knell wood, ulti- 
 mate is a good adjective ; the adjectives get worn 
 out, used up; 'extreme,' Mary would say, and 
 your plow-boy Blount bothering to get an education. 
 There is too much education makes the masses un- 
 happy. Damn education ! It is a premium on dis- 
 content. It is very well for the upper classes." 
 
 Archer had laughed. "What class would you be- 
 long to if you had not a dollar? Martin Blount 's 
 plow-boy life was a cruel accident of poverty. His 
 people were in eminent colonial place before yours 
 landed in this State." 
 
 "Is that so? I should like to see him."
 
 260 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 This talk had amused him, and he liked to be 
 amused. It was part of Lucretia's unending attrac- 
 tiveness. She did what Mary had ceased to do and 
 what Kitty could not, and was, in fact, a gay and 
 clever raconteur, with no very lively scruples as to 
 the character of her stories. 
 
 When the doctor reentered the library John Fair- 
 thorne was at the window, studying an autograph 
 letter of Aaron Burr. As he turned, Archer was 
 struck with the look of interest in his handsome old 
 face. He had the blue eyes which do not show, as 
 dark eyes do, the signals of degenerative decay. He 
 was saying to Mary, who had just given him the 
 monthly account of household expenditures, "If 
 you find it correct that will do. ' ' Mary was amazed. 
 Never before had he failed to inspect it. She rightly 
 took it for a bad sign. 
 
 "Do not go, Miss Fairthorne," said Archer. She 
 waited. 
 
 "Mr. Fairthorne," said the doctor, "I have asked 
 Mrs. Hunter to come back with me. I find that she 
 is continually interfering with my orders. My pre- 
 scriptions are given irregularly, or not given. It is 
 of the utmost moment that certain things should be 
 avoided, and that the heart be sustained by syste- 
 matically given tonics. I am of opinion that 
 
 Fairthorne stopped him with a lifted hand. 
 
 "I do not want to hear about my heart. It al- 
 ways upsets me. ' ' He became at once excited. His 
 head shook tremulously. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter said, under her breath: "I told you 
 so, Dr. Archer. It is most unwise. Sit down, sir, 
 do sit down."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 261 
 
 Mr. Fairthorne obeyed her, saying, "I do not like 
 these discussions." 
 
 ' ' I did not bring it about. I warned Dr. Archer. ' ' 
 
 Archer took no notice of her. 
 
 "The question is, am I to control a difficult case, 
 or is an ignorant woman to do it?" 
 
 "You must not speak that way, Sydney," said the 
 old man. "I I won't have it." 
 
 ' ' Will you kindly answer me ? ' ' 
 
 "What about?" He looked from face to face, as 
 if puzzled. 
 
 "Dr. Archer thinks I neglect you, sir. He wishes 
 me to go." She caught up a fan and used it, fan- 
 ning him. 
 
 "I said nothing of the kind," said Archer. 
 
 "Mrs. Hunter Lucretia, you won't leave me! 
 And you will not desert me, Sydney. I don't want 
 these discussions." With the childlike cunning of 
 age, he took refuge in the appeal of weakness. "I 
 cannot stand it ; I am not strong enough. ' ' 
 
 Archer knew that it was at best a drawn battle. 
 He said : 
 
 "Very good. We can talk of it another time. A 
 word with you, Miss Mary. Good morning. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Hunter smiled. Archer went down-stairs in 
 silence with Miss Fairthorne. 
 
 "Come in a moment," he said. He closed the 
 door. ' ' Sit down. Well, I failed, as you saw. For 
 your sake and his I am sorry." 
 
 ' ' But you will not give him up ? " 
 
 "Not if I can help it." 
 
 "Oh, you must not. I know what you feel. It is 
 responsibility without power. But do not go. I am
 
 262 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 getting what Kitty calls nerves. I never knew I had 
 them. This woman is she has the unexpectedness 
 of a ghost. Suddenly, anywhere in the house, I find 
 her behind me. I think she follows me. And the cat 
 never leaves her. The servants hate her, and I am 
 in endless trouble. You won't leave us, will you?" 
 The evident distress and emotion of this strong and 
 usually tranquil girl again affected him. 
 
 "No. Rely on me. I do not think her dangerous. 
 She wants money. She will get it, no doubt. The 
 trouble is that I shall be replaced by some more 
 manageable man. Now it is open war. Suppose I 
 volunteer a little medical advice. Get on horseback 
 to-day. I will join you if I may. We will talk any- 
 thing but Mrs. Hunter." 
 
 ' ' With pleasure. At four f ' ' 
 
 "Yes." He opened the door for her, and then 
 went away. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter made up her mind that Dr. Archer 
 must go ; but when, next day, she approached the 
 matter, Mr. Fairthorne showed so much annoyance 
 that she made sure it was best to wait. She could 
 wait, and meanwhile would compromise a little and 
 seem to obey this unmanageable doctor.
 
 XXVIII 
 
 [LEMENTINA, ' ' said Miss Letitia Mark- 
 ham, one afternoon in the beginning of 
 March, "we have a great deal to be 
 thankful for." 
 
 The younger lady looked up from her 
 darning of Martin Blount's socks. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "we have, indeed, much to be 
 thankful for. Mr. Blount gives so little trouble. 
 How much he improves ! When first he came he was 
 almost rude." 
 
 "And his nails, Clementina." 
 
 ' ' And his cuffs, Letitia. ' ' 
 
 "I had reference rather to Mr. Grace, dear, when 
 I first spoke. He is, so to speak, plain." 
 
 "But not common, sister. You surely would not 
 say that of him." 
 
 "No, and very delicate in his kindness. One 
 would hardly have expected it. But, dear, you will 
 not mind, Clementina, if I say that after I retire you 
 sit up rather late talking to Mr. Grace. You know, 
 dear, we are single women, living alone, and we have 
 to be careful. ' ' 
 
 A faint little blush, like the first signal of the 
 dawn of some emotion, rose from cheek to brow, as 
 Clementina returned : ' ' He is often interesting, Leti-
 
 264 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 tia, and we see so very few people who are that." 
 As she spoke the darning-ball rolled out of the stock- 
 ing. She bent to pick it up. 
 
 Letitia went on: "I should be sorry to have you 
 think that I really imagine there could be any impro- 
 priety, but last night it was quite eleven before 
 
 "He wanted to talk about Mr. Knell wood, and it 
 did not seem polite to leave him. After all, we are 
 his hosts, dear Letitia." 
 
 "Are you aware that you interrupted me, Clem- 
 entina?" 
 
 "Excuse me, sister." 
 
 "We will drop the subject. I am sure you under- 
 stand me. Katherine Morrow was here to-day again. 
 I do not think it very nice that she should be inces- 
 santly sending Mr. Knellwood soups and flowers. 
 In my day young women were better looked after. 
 She appears to go her own way. ' ' 
 
 It was late of a Saturday night, and at this mo- 
 ment Martin Blount came in. 
 
 "Come to the fire, Mr. Blount," said Miss Clemen- 
 tina; "you look cold. It is still wintry." 
 
 ' ' Oh, no, ' ' he said ; "all I want is to sit down and 
 feel home. It is very nice to feel home." 
 
 "What a curious expression!" said Clementina. 
 ' ' I suppose you mean at home. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, more than that. Mr. Grace says you spoil 
 us all. And to think that some day I must leave you ! 
 I ought to be glad, I suppose. I heard to-day that I 
 am to have the clerkship at Bedford Springs this 
 summer. I shall save a lot of money to go on with 
 next winter. Is n't it jolly, Miss Letitia?"
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 265 
 
 "Jolly seems hardly the correct word satisfac- 
 tory, I should say, Mr. Blount." 
 
 "What is satisfactory?" said Grace, as he dis- 
 tributed a pleasant greeting. "I want you to try the 
 tea I sent to-day, Miss Letitia." 
 
 "But it is a whole chest," said Miss Markham, 
 with a mild sense of injury. 
 
 "Were there some books came two days ago?" he 
 asked. "Those were the books we talked about last 
 week, Miss Clementina 'Cranford,' and 'Little Ped< 
 lington, ' and the ' Religio Medici. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Thank you, ' ' murmured the younger woman. 
 
 "Is Knell wood asleep?" 
 
 Martin said: "Yes." He had been up to see, 
 Then Blount told his good news to Mr. Grace. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Grace; "very satisfactory, very 
 much so. You go in June, you say? In June?'" 
 As he spoke he seated himself at the fire. He took 
 the fire-tongs and put a lump of soft coal on the 
 smoldering hickory logs. It seemed a needless waste 
 to Letitia, whom poverty had painfully taught to be 
 sparing. Then, remembering that it was Mr. Grace 's 
 coal and also his wood, she fell into the lap of hu- 
 miliation because of this lavish guest who sat assault- 
 ing the coal at intervals with the poker. 
 
 Miss Clementina cast now and then a furtive side- 
 glance, wondering what was keeping him so quiet. 
 Martin took up one of the books Grace had sent, and 
 was soon absorbed in the "Religio Medici." 
 
 Only the candle-light, of late amply used, and the 
 red flame of the fire lighted the dulled white panel- 
 ing. From the walls a half-dozen colonial gentlefolk
 
 266 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 looked down on the new and urgent generation, the 
 man who had risen and the man who meant to rise, 
 the latter deep in wonder concerning the seven- 
 teenth-century doctor. 
 
 A little apart from the fire sat the gentle Clemen- 
 tina, pretending, in dress and ways, to be as old as 
 her sister, "because, dear" this had been said to 
 Margaret Swan wick "it does please her. I know it 
 does." Beside her, with, for a wonder, idle hands, 
 was Letitia, nursing the fiction that Clementina was 
 still so young as to need supervision and a control 
 which only love perfected made always endurable. 
 She had said, earlier in the evening, to the younger 
 woman : 
 
 "I have looked over those books, dear. One of 
 them I cannot quite approve of. I mean as to its 
 religious views, dear." Clementina had said that 
 she would be careful not to let the quaint doctor do 
 harm, and then, with modest approach to the hu- 
 morous : 
 
 ' ' I think you read it all, Letitia ! You might ask 
 Mr. Knellwood to have mass for the soul of that 
 delightful old doctor." 
 
 Letitia had said: "You surprise me, sister." In 
 fact, of late Clementina had seemed to her "vola- 
 tile, quite volatile." 
 
 Just now, as I have said, Miss Markham was idle, 
 her hands in her lap, her eyes tearful as she turned 
 her gaze on the blue uniform of the boy brother who 
 had said : ' ' There must be another general in the 
 family," and had gone away to die on the sad hill- 
 side at Fredericksburg. They were all unusually
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 267 
 
 silent. At last Clementina said : ' ' Kitty Morrow left 
 fruit here to-day, a basketful, and fresh eggs from 
 her uncle's farm, and yesterday soup. Dr. Archer 
 declares that Susan's soup is better. He forbade 
 fruit." 
 
 "Now," cried Martin, laughing, "I know why I 
 have such splendid lunch-baskets. I thought Miss 
 Clementina was extravagant." 
 
 "And the Easter lilies," said Clementina; "Mr. 
 Knellwood ordered them taken away. He was al- 
 most cross. Mrs. Hunter brought them." 
 
 "I wonder where that woman came from," re- 
 marked Grace. "A singular face." 
 
 "I saw her somewhere once," said Martin, "but 
 I cannot say where. ' ' 
 
 "I think Miss Mary Fairthorne and some others 
 would like to know," said Clementina. "Tom Mas- 
 ters says she is making trouble for our dear Mary 
 Fairthorne. I think he called her 'a vindictive 
 cat.' " 
 
 Martin laughed : ' ' That 's descriptive. ' ' 
 
 "She quite controls Kitty," said Clementina, "and 
 has filled her with folly about spirit rappings." 
 
 "I think I would n't gossip, sister," said Letitia, 
 rising. Martin, with freshly acquired courtesy, 
 opened the door and the two little figures departed. 
 
 "Martin," said Grace, abruptly, "give up that 
 clerkship. I want the books at my country house 
 catalogued. Let us consider it a business matter. 
 You will have time to study. I really need you. ' ' 
 
 Martin smiled in his grave, slow way. "No, Mr. 
 Grace, I want to fight it out. I have been too much
 
 268 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 helped already. I well, it humiliates a fellow. 
 You will excuse me, but I can't do it. Dr. Archer 
 says you are the most ingeniously kind man he ever 
 knew. He says you ought to patent some of your 
 ways of helping people." 
 
 Martin was shrewd enough to understand the pres- 
 ent excuse for helpfulness. Had he known the rea- 
 son back of it he would have been astonished. 
 
 "Well," said Grace, "I used to feel as you do. 
 Think it over. I do not suppose that you will 
 change your mind, but think it over." Then he 
 rang for the maid to put out the lights and they 
 went to bed. 
 
 Meanwhile, up-stairs Mr. Knellwood was slowly 
 recovering, and regretting the time lost to his work. 
 While he was very weak he had ceased to think of 
 Katherine Morrow, but as his great frame was reclad 
 with flesh and he was forbidden to read, time hung 
 heavy on his hands, and he felt the moral relaxation 
 left by serious illness. Miss Kitty, as we have seen, 
 had material means of keeping her too seductive 
 image in his mind. He was for a while as feeble to 
 resist or banish thought as to control his appetite 
 for food. The physical man was asserting himself, 
 the spiritual being was in abeyance. His color came 
 again. He recalled the cricket-field and his great 
 scores. He saw the grim battle-fields, as he lay in 
 the fairyland between waking and sleep, and, half 
 ashamed, knew again the joy of danger when the 
 fighting chaplain had steadied the wavering battle- 
 line. He stretched his gaunt limbs and laughed 
 to find himself too long for the bed. Again he
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 269 
 
 had thoughts he did not wish to keep in mind, and 
 recalled what Archer had said to the effect that ill- 
 ness may leave men in a condition which for a time 
 lessens the power to control emotion, or to sum- 
 marily dismiss unwelcome memories. He knew, how- 
 ever, that he was surely regaining normal capacity to 
 rule the domains of mind and body. ^ 
 
 There was seeming truce in John Fairthorne's 
 house, while from time to time Mrs. Hunter read 
 the business letters of Luke Pilgrim, and tried to 
 forecast a dubious future. The people were hostile, 
 he wrote. The decisions of the courts were not much 
 regarded. Men were robbing the forests and ready 
 to defend their ways with the rifle. He had no idea 
 of returning just now and had bought a coal tract 
 adjoining the land of Mr. Fairthorne. He wrote 
 very briefly and with a certain caution, due to an- 
 other correspondence with Mrs. Swanwick. 
 
 At last came a letter asking frankly if he, Pil- 
 grim, should insist, in the face of inimical feeling, 
 upon running the surveyor's lines. He was pre- 
 pared to go on or to withdraw for the present, 
 until the railways opened the country and made 
 it worth while. His own interests were small, 
 Mr. Fairthorne's large. It was a clear, practical 
 letter. 
 
 This communication alarmed Mr. Fairthorne. He 
 said to Lucretia: "No, I want him to be careful. I 
 do not want things pushed. Please write him to 
 that effect. Make it plain ; if he can go on and run 
 the lines, let him do it. Very likely he overrates the 
 risks. Now I must lie down. No, I need not see it.
 
 270 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Send it at once. Of course, I do not want my rights 
 ignored. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Hunter sat long over that letter. It tasked 
 alike her manual dexterity and her inventive skill. 
 If she could so state things as to delay the engineer 's 
 return it was clear gain for her. She wanted time. 
 What Fairthorne had finally said enabled her to send 
 a not entirely untruthful statement, which was well 
 fitted to put a brave man on his mettle. She kept 
 copies of what Mr. Fairthorne was presumed to have 
 said, and they lost no strength in her rendering. 
 
 The occasional letters which Luke Pilgrim sent to 
 his old friends Harry and Margaret stated the situ- 
 ation more gravely. 
 
 " MY DEAR HARRY," he wrote : " I think every country re- 
 quires a vent for the men whose talents during peace are buried 
 in club reading-rooms or drowned in whisky for lack of relief 
 to the lust of battle. That is the real value of Hindustan to 
 England. That is why war will always exist. It is a latent 
 disease and breaks out like the plague under favoring condi- 
 tions. Mankind ingeniously breeds a cause, and thus excuses 
 the natural needs of a nation, which are like those of a man, to 
 kill something. It is only a generalized expression of the in- 
 stinct which makes Tom Masters and quieter folk shoot ducks, 
 or kill salmon, or go after grizzlies. Alas ! for the unlucky 
 ones who are uselessly stranded on peaceful days and to whom 
 war was pastime, evolution, and opportunity. Ah, this is the 
 place for them. It is purely medieval in sentiment. The 
 women despise a man who cannot kill. There are fine middle- 
 age vendettas, temporarily abandoned when the community 
 turns out to oppose the civilization of outsiders who innocently 
 trust to title-deeds. There are many old Union men and Rebs 
 here and these are with us. It is the refuse, who were neutral 
 in the war, who are the bad lot. I foresee a row, and I hate it. 
 I have a dozen rifles, and am quietly training my men.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 271 
 
 " I wrote Tom, before things began to look serious, to come 
 up here and kill deer and bear. When I saw that we were 
 soon to have trouble about the boundaries the engineers are 
 running, I wired Tom : ' Do not come. We are going to have 
 mischief.' I was a fool." 
 
 "I should think so," said Harry. " 'Here 's a 
 nice bone, little bulldog, but don't touch it.' ' 
 
 " Tom replied, ' So glad ; come at once. Hurrah! ' " 
 
 "He might have known that," said Margaret; 
 "go on." 
 
 "He came, and really, to see that neat little gentleman, 
 bored with clubs, and pigeon-shooting, and with what he calls 
 the accursed certainties of modern life to see him, suddenly 
 alert, interested, with every faculty raised to the wth power 
 and all because of the ferment called danger ! My English has 
 got tangled, but you will know what I mean, because you re- 
 \/ member the mad sixties. For you and me the war was a busi- 
 ness of mere duty. For Tom, too, it was this, no doubt, but it 
 was also more. He is a born leader of men one of those rare 
 people in whom nearness to death-risks ripens talent into 
 genius. He knew it then ; he knows it now. But what to do 
 with these fellows in peace ! I am most glad to have him and 
 tell him every day to go away. You should hear him laugh. 
 There is n't room for a laugh like that in towns. 
 
 " I have written cautiously to Mr. Fairthorne, for really I do 
 not understand his letters. He dictates to that queer secretary 
 of whom you speak. He hopes I will not hesitate to resist if 
 there is trouble in making the surveys. ' Force must be met 
 with force,' and so on. When I took his final direction, he 
 said, ' If the lines cannot be run and the mines peacefully ex- 
 amined, I personally do not care to push matters. I do not 
 need the money and after all the returns will be remote and 
 the present cost large.' "
 
 272 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "There is more," said Harry, "but the rest is 
 purely as to those titles." 
 
 "Read it," she said. He did so. 
 
 "Ah, here is Mary. Sit down. The winds of 
 March have given you a fine color. We have been 
 reading a letter from Luke Pilgrim. Read it, Mary. ' ' 
 
 Madge returned to her sewing, and Harry lit his 
 pipe. Both were thinking over the risks run by 
 their friends. Mary took up the letter. She had 
 once been nearer to loving Luke Pilgrim than she 
 had ever been to loving any other man. He was, 
 on one side, a highly educated man, eminent and 
 original in his profession in fact, an engineer of 
 unusual powers ; on his other side, he was fond of 
 the mystical, sensitive, imaginative, without distinct 
 creed or definite religion ; a tender man, also a man 
 people trusted on sight. 
 
 Mary reflected as she saw the familiar back-hand : 
 ' ' How near I was to it ! But knowing that ended it. ' ' 
 
 "Well, Madge," she said, "how does it strike 
 you ? ' ' 
 
 "It appears to me plain ; I think Mr. Pilgrim may 
 have misunderstood uncle's letters; but one likes to 
 see the text when statements as contradictory are 
 made. ' ' 
 
 "Meanwhile," said Harry, "there are two good 
 fellows put in danger that an old man may add to 
 an estate already beyond his needs. I suppose he 
 wrote in one of his irritable moods." 
 
 "No," said Mary. "I am surprised, Madge, that 
 you do not see that my uncle never could have dic- 
 tated the part about using force. For one of us, for
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 273 
 
 a Fairthorne, he is strangely timid. Do you recall 
 his state of mind during the strike last year? He 
 would have had the railroad yield every point. No ; 
 Mrs. Hunter's hand is in that letter." 
 
 "But why?" said Madge. "One must have a 
 motive. It is not reasonable. The woman is not a 
 fool." 
 
 "That is what she is occasionally. I sometimes 
 think that, like Tom Masters, she fights for the love 
 of fighting." 
 
 "That seems to me a little absurd," said Harry. 
 
 "No," she insisted. "Mrs. Hunter is there in 
 that letter. Why she wrote all that I do not know. ' ' 
 
 "My dear Mary, your imagination does sometimes 
 \/ carry you beyond the boundaries of proof," said 
 Madge. 
 
 ' ' Good gracious ! You dear little logician ! What 
 else is it for? I should like to show this letter to 
 uncle, but I believe that it would be useless. ' ' 
 
 "Let us wait a little," said Mrs. Swan wick. 
 Harry, as usual, acquiesced in her view of the mat- 
 ter. Mary shook her head in dissent. She thought 
 that her uncle ought to see this letter at once, but as 
 Harry sided with his wife she unwillingly ceased to" 
 urge the matter. Presently Madge asked what had 
 become of Kitty. 
 
 "You must inquire of our dear Lucretia," said 
 Mary. "They seem to be largely engaged in attend- 
 ing to the physical wants of their spiritual director." 
 
 "Indeed, Mary, that is too true. Kitty is a source 
 of some amusement to the young man I am polish- 
 ing. Miss Letitia is in a state of chronic disgust. 
 
 18
 
 274 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Kitty is being gossiped over as none of us ever have 
 been. She really kept Mr. Blount a half-hour last 
 Sunday while she asked all kinds of questions about 
 Mr. Knellwood. It was like poor Kit's small cun- 
 ning to think that the 'country-bred lout' (that is 
 Kitty's, not mine) would not suspect. In reality, 
 he is what Mr. Pilgrim described as 'too ingeniously 
 inferential.' Blount said it did seem as if Miss 
 Morrow and Mr. Knellwood 'must have been keep- 
 ing company.' Don't look so shocked. It was his 
 way of saying what we should put some other 
 way. ' ' 
 
 "Don't laugh, Madge," returned Mary. "It is 
 too dreadful, too humiliating. What could you 
 what did you say ? ' ' 
 
 "Say, dear? There is a refuse-heap in a corner 
 of that young man's mind into which I am sweeping 
 a fine collection of these country phrases. Wait a 
 little, and see what I shall make of him. Let us 
 thank God that Mr. Knellwood is a gentleman, and 
 for his own sake a celibate." 
 
 "Well that is small comfort. Are there other 
 letters, Harry?" 
 
 "Yes, one other no, two. Pilgrim says that, 
 being in some doubt, he wrote to uncle more freely, 
 and that uncle was in return even more positive that 
 Mr. Pilgrim was right as to his determination to have 
 the lines run and his legal rights enforced." 
 
 "It is all very strange," said Mary. 
 
 "Here," rejoined Madge, "is a letter from Tom 
 Masters to Harry. I have not heard it. Head it to 
 us, Harry."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 275 
 
 " DEAR HARRY : Pilgrim kindly wired me that there was a 
 small war on. A man brought the telegram out to my boat. 
 I was in Tampa Bay, and fast to a tarpon. I cut the line, 
 came in, got a sloop up the coast, and so across country on a 
 horse to the rail, baggage to follow. We may get off without 
 a fight, but these fellows want it. They are fools enough to 
 think it will end this matter of boundaries ; as yet we have had 
 no serious difficulties. Meanwhile, the people are rude and 
 hostile, and for fear of what may come I am giving the young 
 engineers a few lessons as to how to take care of themselves. 
 By Mars ! they need it. Luke is engaged in diplomatic efforts 
 at some kind of compromise ; it won't work ; the trouble is the 
 squatters and their women. One of them told me to-day I 
 was ' a nice little man/ and her Bill would fetch me home to be 
 ' a doll for the children.' She was a handsome devil. I said 
 Bill would never get near enough. I put up my rifle, barked a 
 gray squirrel on the top of a big papaw-tree, and said, ' Take 
 that to the children, and let me off.' She ' guessed I could 
 shoot,' but that the squirrel ' did n't have no rifle.' I said I had 
 been shot at a good deal, and that I had a charm and could n't 
 be hit. By Jove ! I think she believed me. 
 
 "My worst trouble is with Luke. He wanders about in the 
 hills alone, cracking rocks with his hammer. If things get 
 worse here, some one will shoot him. When he gets away from 
 the engineer party I am all the time uneasy. Next week the 
 lines will be run through Bill's farm. Then look out ! 
 
 "I am very well and enjoying myself. Send me down the 
 last-pattern Winchester, 45-caliber, and two hundred cartridges. 
 " Yours as long as I last, 
 
 " TH. MASTERS. 
 
 "P. S. Some fool shot at Luke yesterday evening. It was, 
 we think, a woman. What could one do against a brigade of 
 petticoats? The sex down here is well advanced. I see in the 
 papers one or two rather disquieting things about the Republic 
 Trust Co. I suppose so long as John Fairthorne is satisfied I 
 may be. I got out of it. I wonder has he soldi 
 
 " Yrs., 
 
 " T M n
 
 276 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 They agreed that it was very confusing. 
 
 Late that evening Archer came into Swanwick's, 
 as was his frequent habit, to smoke his only cigar of 
 the day before bedtime. Mr. Swanwick was out. 
 
 ' ' Sit down, ' ' said Margaret ; ' ' you look tired. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I am more weary than tired. I had an annoying 
 bout with Mrs. Hunter this morning; my out-clinic, 
 which I like to run myself when I have time, was 
 unsatisfactory just a series of cases of the poor 
 needing all kind of things which no man can give, 
 or else hopeless incurables. And then I had to dis- 
 charge from the wards three honest mechanics. 
 They are well, but yet weak, stranded, penniless." 
 
 "How can that be helped?" 
 
 "Helped?" he said. "Ask the rich. Everyman 
 discharged from a jail is cared for, but the man who 
 leaves a hospital, who cares for him? Sometimes it 
 saps one's faith to see so much misery you cannot 
 help." 
 
 "It must be trying in many ways." 
 
 "Yes; if a man wants to have his manners, his pa- 
 tience, and his charity tested I advise a heavy out- 
 service for the poor. There are days when every- 
 thing goes wrong." 
 
 "I know," laughed Madge. 
 
 "As if to complete things, old Soper stopped me 
 at the foot of your steps just a moment to describe 
 an interesting case. It took ten minutes. At last 
 he said he was in a hurry, and had to go at once to 
 see Mr. Jackson. Then he reported a Mr. Thurston 's 
 case at length, as if insomnia was as rare as Morvan 's 
 disease."
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 277 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "Pardon me, that is shop. You do not know his 
 variety, the Bore Medical. He said at last he might 
 have to ask my counsel. He never will. And Thur- 
 ston 's brother-in-law was ill, quite a remarkable case, 
 and so on." 
 
 "Are not both of them officers of Harry's com- 
 pany, the Republic Trust ? ' ' asked Mrs. Swan wick. 
 
 "Are they? I might have regaled him in turn 
 with the fact that two of Thurston's directors are 
 out of sorts. That might have seemed even more 
 remarkable. The coincidence is a little queer, though. 
 May I have some whisky and soda? Let us talk of 
 pleasanter things. You will admit that I never talk 
 shop." 
 
 "No, not enough. I like it. I mean intelligent, 
 impersonal shop. ' ' 
 
 "That is all well enough for you, who are only a 
 rare customer. I like at times to put up the shut- 
 ters. If I am tired of it oh, very tired I get my 
 fly-books out. They are 'big medicine.' ' 
 
 They talked of the children or of books until Harry 
 Swanwiek came in with a telegram in his hand. 
 
 "I found a boy, Madge, ringing as if he would 
 pull the bell out. I pulled his ear, and that stopped 
 him. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I sent the servants to bed, ' ' she said. 
 
 ' ' Well, shall we guess what it is about ? " He held 
 up the yellow missive. 
 
 ' ' Open it, Harry ; I have never yet become used to 
 them." He obeyed. 
 
 "Oh, Madge!
 
 278 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 " ' Luke Pilgrim has been badly wounded. Send Archer down 
 at once. See letter. Will wire again.' " 
 
 "How dreadful!" 
 
 "Get me the evening paper," said Archer, rising. 
 He looked it over in haste, and then at the clock. 
 
 "I can catch the twelve through train from New 
 York. I have just time and no more. I shall have 
 to lie over in Baltimore. I will write and settle my 
 own affairs from there. Give me some money, 
 Harry. Thank you ; good-bye. ' ' 
 
 They went down to the door with him. 
 
 "You will be careful about yourself," said the 
 little lady. ' ' You know how much we care for you. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, they don't shoot doctors," he said, laughing. 
 "I shall be friends with every scamp of them in a 
 week, and doctor all the children. Good-bye." 
 
 "Don't cry, dear," Harry said, for Luke Pilgrim 
 was the friend of many years, and to be the friend of 
 this house meant more than the word friend com- 
 monly implies. 
 
 They talked long of Pilgrim and how soon they 
 might hope to hear. Just before Madge went up- 
 stairs, she said : 
 
 "There is one other thing, Harry, that I ought to 
 say, and it is of moment. Uncle John, who lives in 
 a world of his own, holds a very large amount of 
 Republic stock. If he relies on any one, it is on 
 you." 
 
 ' ' Well, dear ? You look serious. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, I am serious enough, and when I explain 
 myself you will very likely laugh at me."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 279 
 
 "I never laugh at you." It was true. 
 
 "Then I will tell you. Mr. Grace has resigned; 
 the president can't sleep," and she related the doc- 
 tor's talk; "the vice-president is ill and two direc- 
 tors. Put it all together and you will see." 
 
 "But Grace continues to hold his own stock." 
 
 "My dear boy, cannot you see it? Here are four 
 directors ill. Mr. Grace may have good reasons for 
 not selling. ' ' 
 
 ' ' And your uncle ? ' ' 
 
 "He should at least be warned." 
 
 "I will talk to him, but your reasons are rather 
 queer. ' ' 
 
 "No; and, Harry, you are still their counsel. 
 There is something wrong, or else they would never 
 secretly consult another lawyer." 
 
 He said in reply that it still paid him well; how 
 would it do to consult Grace about resigning? 
 Madge said : ' ' Perhaps. Let us think it over to-mor- 
 row." She stood still a moment, reflecting. Mr. 
 Grace might or might not be willing to advise on 
 either question, and meanwhile Harry, with his occa- 
 sional difficulty in coming to a decision, might delay 
 too long to advise her uncle. She saw it all very 
 clearly, and the possible disadvantage of repre- 
 senting as counsel a company within the risk of a 
 discreditable failure. She had seen in the papers 
 comments as to the fluctuations in the price of an 
 unnamed trust stock and knew very well that this 
 implied doubt and suspicion. She wanted her uncle 
 made safe, but she was far more sensitive as to the 
 fair name of Jack's father.
 
 280 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "He shall make uncle sell and he shall resign," 
 she said to herself. Then she turned from it. She 
 had settled the matter, and was equally ready to 
 deal with the case of the unlucky engineer. 
 
 "As soon as he can travel, Harry, we must have 
 Luke Pilgrim here. He could have your room, and 
 you might use the hall room?" 
 
 "My dear," he cried, "it may be weeks, and God 
 knows what we may hear to-morrow. ' ' 
 
 Like most women who have the logically gifted 
 mind, Madge was not apt to hurt herself with antici- 
 pation of disaster.
 
 XXIX 
 
 HE next day Harry Swanwick left his 
 wife and the children at breakfast, and 
 went out earlier than usual, intending 
 to see Mr. Fairthorne before he went 
 to his own office. He met Roger Grace 
 at the corner of Broad Street, and wondered what 
 brought the banker up-town at so early an hour. 
 Grace said, as they shook hands: "I was on my 
 way to thank you for your kindness. I think I 
 shall enjoy the dining-club. The list of members 
 seems attractive. I meant to write to you, but I like 
 better to speak my thanks." He was very much 
 pleased. ' ' What good friends you are ! ' ' 
 "We try to be." 
 
 "If Mrs. Swanwick will see me thus early, I have 
 something for her. ' ' 
 
 "She will if you make the servant take your card 
 to her. We had bad news last night. I am on my 
 way to tell Mr. Fairthorne." Then he went on 
 briefly to relate what had happened, and to add that 
 Archer thought Mr. Knellwood might not now re- 
 quire a physician, as he was sitting up, but would 
 write and advise whom to send for in case of need. 
 Grace said he would tell him. The banker did not 
 know Pilgrim, but he clearly understood the situ- 
 281
 
 282 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 ation in West Virginia, and thought it would have 
 been wiser to have delayed active operations until 
 the new railroad opened the country. 
 
 When Margaret came down to meet him, he said : 
 "I have brought you a little money for the home. 
 We wound up a rather prosperous real-estate trans- 
 action yesterday. I made two old fellows who never 
 give anything to anything open their purses. They 
 tried hard to get out of it, but it was hard to refuse 
 a man who had made a lot of money for them. ' ' 
 
 "I suppose," she said, as she thanked him, ''that 
 some men have to learn to give. It is an education, 
 and at last a pleasure." 
 
 "Yes; to be frank, at first I found it difficult to 
 break too economic habits, when economy ceased to 
 be needed. The habit of useless accumulation is not 
 easy to shake off. Your uncle is interesting to me 
 about that. He gives in large sums, and never in the 
 way of small helpings to people in real need. Knell- 
 wood says if he asks aid for an individual Mr. Fair- 
 thorne invariably says no, and yet he likes Mr. Knell- 
 wood why, I cannot imagine. No two men could be 
 further apart in all ways." 
 
 Madge knew very well but held her tongue, and 
 contented herself with saying that her uncle's likes 
 and dislikes were past comprehending, and then 
 asked: "But why do you yourself like him?" for 
 she was really curious. Grace smiled. 
 
 "I don't wonder you ask. How rarely one puts 
 that question to one's self! I like Knell wood for 
 his utter disregai-d for money, for his entire hon- 
 esty of purpose, and because you will laugh be-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 283 
 
 cause of his completeness of self-control. Here is a ^ 
 great big man, built for battle, for field sports. M 
 Every bit of him must hunger for action, and yet, 
 because he has certain absurd beliefs, he lives an 
 ascetic life, starves himself to feed the poor, and 
 fusses over ceremonial trifles." 
 
 "I can comprehend all that, but cannot yet see 
 why you like him. I do not. Respect does not in- 
 sure affection." 
 
 "I fancy, Mrs. Swan wick, that to like him you 
 must know him well. Back of all his nonsense is a 
 kind of sweet goodness, something one could trust in 
 time of trial. If ever I wanted to confess to a man 
 I should choose Knellwood." 
 
 Madge looked up at the strongly marked face, with 
 its look of power, and felt that there was an ele- 
 ment of the comic in the idea of this man's confess- 
 ing to the narrow-minded priest of St. Agnes. 
 
 "I ought to feel answered, Mr. Grace, but I do 
 not. Let us drop him. I want to ask you may I 
 say as a friend? a grave question. I will not go 
 into my reasons for it. Do you not think my hus- 
 band ought to resign from his position as counsel of 
 the Republic Trust Company?" 
 
 The banker was somewhat startled. He had been 
 hearing quite too much of that company in the inner 
 circles of finance. 
 
 "Mrs. Swan wick, I do not like their ways. I hold 
 a large amount of their stock, and I shall continue 
 to hold it for reasons needless to discuss. I do not 
 think it will go to the wall, and I am now endeavor- 
 ing to sustain it in case of need. If the present state
 
 284 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 of things gets worse, that and some other institu- 
 tions may break or will need assistance. Frankly 
 speaking, I believe that in case of disaster its man- 
 agement would be savagely blamed. ' ' 
 "And Harry?" she asked, anxiously. 
 "Oh, he is as much outside of their affairs as I 
 oh, even more so, but no matter. To answer you, 
 yes ; on the whole, he had better let it go. Tell him 
 to resign quietly, and tell him too that this is all 
 in absolute confidence. I meant to advise him to 
 resign." 
 
 "Will you?" she said, quickly. "I should pre- 
 fer that." 
 
 "I will. I will write to him within an hour." 
 "My uncle is a large stock-holder. Should Harry 
 advise him to sell out ? ' ' The banker did not like it. 
 He had urged Fairthorne not to sell. Between them 
 they held a fourth of the stock. Since then things 
 were, as he knew, going from bad to worse, but a 
 large sale would precipitate trouble and the horizon 
 was already darkening. 
 
 "Mrs. Swan wick," he said, "I long ago advised 
 your uncle about his stock. In an interview which 
 he sought, I offered to take it off his hands in such 
 a way as not to disturb confidence and yet insure 
 him against serious loss. The offer was not unsel- 
 fish. I hold to it. I will say all this to your hus- 
 band, but I do not believe Mr. Fairthorne will sell 
 to me or to any one. ' ' 
 
 / "Thank you. I am out of it altogether. It is 
 
 really not a woman's business not mine, at least." 
 
 "I will see Mr. Swanwick." He was beginning
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 286 
 
 to comprehend how much of the good sense and effi- 
 ciency of Harry was due to the female member of 
 the firm. 
 
 As he rose she opened the envelope he had given. 
 
 "My dear Mr. Grace! You were hard on them." 
 
 "It will do them good," he said, laughing, and, 
 after a few words about Pilgrim, went away. 
 
 Harry Swanwick found that Mr. Fairthorne was 
 still abed. Desiring to see him in person, he decided 
 to return later in the day. At his office he met a 
 clerk who said he had been charged by the banker 
 to place a letter in his hands. There was no answer, 
 he thought. Harry read it. 
 
 ' ' No, ' ' he said, ' ' there is no answer. You may say 
 that I will call at eleven." 
 
 At that hour he had a talk with Grace, who said 
 to him finally : 
 
 "On no account must Mr. Fairthorne throw his 
 stock on the market. At any time I will take it at 
 par." Then the banker advised him to resign as 
 counsel. 
 
 He went to his office, wrote resigning his place 
 as official counsel to the Trust, and gave no expla- 
 nation. When, after the directors' meeting that 
 week, it was simply accepted, he said to Madge: "I 
 think they might have said a decent word of regret, 
 or, as is usual, requested me to reconsider it." He 
 was a little annoyed. 
 
 "No, no, Harry; you were an embarrassment. I 
 am glad you saw your way to take Mr. Grace's 
 advice." 
 
 When Harry left Grace's office he went to Mr.
 
 286 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Fairthorne's house, and was shown into the library. 
 The unavoidable Mrs. Hunter was busy at one table, 
 with the cat Felisa in her lap. Mr. Fairthorne, who 
 was near-sighted and never wore glasses, was hold- 
 ing a book on surnames as close as the Fairthorne 
 nose permitted. 
 
 "Good morning, Uncle John. How are you, Mrs. 
 Hunter?" 
 
 Mr. Fairthorne looked up. "Oh, how are you! 
 Fine March weather." 
 
 "I should like to talk to you a few minutes." 
 
 "Well, talk." 
 
 "I wish to see you alone." 
 
 Mrs. Hunter rose and went out. Harry shut the 
 door. 
 
 "There has been trouble at the mines. Pilgrim 
 has been shot, and I fear is dangerously wounded. 
 Tom Masters is there and wired us bast night. 
 Archer went South by the night train. I hope to 
 hear by letter to-night. ' ' 
 
 "Very bad very bad, indeed!" said Fairthorne. 
 "Don't see through it. I wrote to Pilgrim not to 
 , get into trouble about squatters. Until the court de- 
 cided I could very well wait." 
 
 "I thought you were anxious, sir, to run the lines 
 and open the mines ; at least, so far as to decide on 
 their value." 
 
 "Nonsense! I wrote nothing of the kind. I 
 ^/ wanted Pilgrim to look it all over and report. I 
 gave no orders to push things." 
 
 Harry was naturally puzzled as he recalled Pil- 
 grim's letters. He knew Mr. Fairthorne's memory
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 287 
 
 had been failing, and yet he seemed just now to be 
 both clear and confident. 
 
 "I want Mrs. Hunter." He rang his table bell. 
 When the secretary returned he said at first no word 
 except as to what interested him most, his own 
 accuracy. 
 
 "Have you copies of my letters to Mr. Pilgrim?" 
 
 She said she had, but somehow the letter-book could 
 not be found. Mrs. Hunter explained that besides 
 the daily care of the room Miss Mary insisted on a 
 more serious weekly dusting. It had just taken 
 place. 
 
 "Oh, very well," he said; "it must be found." 
 He would have blamed any one else, but Mrs. Hunter 
 he never blamed. 
 
 ' ' Find it to-morrow, Harry. Some mistake. Yes, 
 I will write to-day and set it all straight. They 
 must all come away. I do not suppose it is very 
 bad. Let me hear when you get your letters. You 
 said Archer had gone down to take care of him? 
 And now I am left without a doctor. ' ' 
 
 "May I ask," said the secretary, rising up from 
 unrewarded search, "may I ask what is wrong? 
 What has happened?" 
 
 ' ' Happened ? Everything has happened. Archer 
 has gone off and left me without a word. It is most 
 inconsiderate." 
 
 "But what has happened?" 
 
 "What has happened," said Swanwick, "is that 
 Mr. Fairthorne's wishes have been misunderstood, 
 and that there has been serious trouble with squat- 
 ters. Mr. Pilgrim has been shot."
 
 288 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Good heavens!" She sat down as she spoke. 
 ' ' Not dangerously, I hope ? " If ever she lied it was 
 \/ then. Her command of her features was entire, and 
 yet never in all her life had she been so disturbed. 
 
 Harry replied that as yet they had no particu- 
 lars. Mrs. Hunter, eager to get away, asked if she 
 were still needed. On the stairs she paused and 
 stood still, deep in thought. 
 
 "I would have fought it out," she murmured. 
 "Now there will be time and to spare to spare, and 
 perhaps perhaps She turned and went up- 
 stairs slowly, heavy-footed with thought. She would 
 ,v be free for a time from a great fear and have 
 leisure to do something more than merely to secure 
 a temporary home. She sat down by the window 
 and watched Felisa, who was in the garden playing 
 tiger in the jungles of dead flower-stems. 
 
 "Ah! That will do," she murmured at last. 
 "Yes, that will do; but there is no hurry, and now 
 I shall get even with that sharp-eyed doctor. De- 
 cidedly we shall want another physician." The 
 chance of annoying a man who had ventured to op- 
 pose her so pleased Lucretia that her face lighted up 
 with an evil smile. "He won't like it." 
 
 While she was seeing her way through her game, 
 Harry was discussing the affairs of the Republic 
 Trust. He spoke with the utmost caution, but re- 
 peated Grace's offer, and also the banker's request 
 not to sell in open market. 
 
 Fairthorne returned: "I do not think it is any 
 one's business but my own, nor why this damned 
 dollar-lord should dictate." Evidently, as happened
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 289 
 
 when anything excited the old man, he was becoming 
 testy and unable to use the power to think reason- 
 ably on matters of business which he still retained 
 in calmer moments. 
 
 "You may tell him I am not to be made the fool 
 of any broker's ring." 
 
 ' ' I shall tell him nothing of the kind, sir ; and you 
 must not say this sort of thing to me. Roger Grace 
 is my friend. I won 't stand it. " 
 
 Again, as usual, Fairthorne took refuge in his 
 feebleness. 
 
 ' ' I am too weak for these discussions. My temper 
 won't bear it." 
 
 "So I perceive. I came here to do you a service, 
 and you thank me by insulting me. ' ' 
 
 "Is n't that rather strong language to use to an 
 old man? But no one respects anything or anybody 
 nowadays. I suppose you want me to say I am 
 sorry. I am not, but I apologize. ' ' 
 
 "That is quite sufficient," said Harry, shortly. 
 ' ' I will send you whatever news I get. ' ' 
 
 Fairthorne was easily beaten. He was not very 
 much afraid of Harry, but he had a wholesome dread 
 of Mary, who was unrestrained by any terrors of 
 the use he might make of that deadly weapon, an / 
 old man's will. He had, too, a minor dread of Mar- 
 garet's way of gaily putting him right. Moreover, 
 as he well knew, any slight to her husband she never 
 pardoned. Her mode of punishment consisted in 
 keeping Jack away, and as Fairthorne was proud of 
 his namesake he was never long in coming to terms 
 when deprived of Jack's society. The cat was less 
 
 19
 
 290 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 fond of Jack, and Mrs. Hunter stuffed the boy with 
 bonbons, to Margaret's horror. 
 
 The letter-book was lost until other matters caused 
 Fairthorne to forget it. The day after the coming 
 of the telegram which disturbed so many people, a 
 letter arrived from Tom Masters. It ran thus : 
 
 "DEAR HARRY: I inclose a simple statement of what hap- 
 pened, and of Luke's condition, and, not to keep you in doubt, 
 I may say that he is doing well. 
 
 " Pilgrim came down with orders from your uncle to run the 
 boundaries of his lands, test the outcrop of coal, and to avoid, 
 at present, collision with squatters. Later Mr. Fairthorne wrote 
 very positively that the boundaries were to be run and blazed, 
 and his lines established, whether the squatters liked it or not. 
 Pilgrim swore he would obey orders, and got together a lot of 
 ex-Confederate engineers. It was a foolish business. The wood 
 losses are really small, and the mines are useless until the rail- 
 ways get in. 
 
 "Pretty soon these fellows began to think their wretched 
 little clearings in peril. They threatened, and Pilgrim went on 
 in his grim New England way. Then I came up and saw what 
 we had to expect. Luke said he was sent there to study the 
 coal and run those boundary lines ; he meant to do both. I 
 set to work to take care of him. Two days ago a man named 
 Springer came down to our camp and said no man should run 
 lines over his farm. Pilgrim talked to him; it was useless. 
 Next day I made half of the engineers take their rifles, and 
 went with them myself. 
 
 " When we got on to the clearing, Pilgrim, who would not 
 arm himself, walked toward the house. I was fifty yards be- 
 hind and well to left. He called to the men to wait a bit, that 
 he must talk to Springer. As he spoke, the man, who was 
 out of my sight, within his doorway, fired, and Luke went 
 down with a ball through his right lung. Several of our men 
 fired into the doorway. Being at one side I saw Springer run 
 out back of the house. As he climbed over the snake fence I
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 291 
 
 fired. I am glad now I did not kill him. Queerly enough, my 
 Winchester ball went through his right lung from back to front. 
 It was good Hebrew justice eye for eye except that Pilgrim 
 was hit by the smaller bullet. When Springer crumpled and 
 fell, I ran up and took his rifle. It was a long-barreled old- 
 time piece, a muzzle-loader. 
 
 " Pilgrim is doing well, and Springer is likely to die. I am 
 anxiously waiting for Archer, for certainly both men are in 
 peril. Springer's wife is comically suspicious because I want 
 the rascal to get well. This is not the custom of battle here. 
 I cut out my bullet with a penknife. It was just under the 
 skin. Springer, half dead, cursed me, but they had to hold the 
 man's wife. I am the third man in danger, and I am advised 
 of several doctors learned in the law and practice of the ven- 
 detta, to seek a more wholesome climate. Mr. Springer's sons, 
 set. sixteen and eighteen, are in the mountains with guns. 
 Mrs. Springer assures me that they will ' git me for certin, 
 specially Bill.' Between nursing Pilgrim and fussing over 
 Springer and running the lines through his farm, I am well 
 occupied. Those boys bother me. Calf game is not to my 
 taste. 
 
 " Meanwhile I am more alive than I have been since that 
 mournful day at Appomattox, when I felt worse than Robert 
 Lee. I fell out of the only business on earth for which I am 
 fit. Tell Jack we will come here some day and camp in the 
 yew-pines and kill bears. I never forget that I am his god- 
 father. It is an awful responsibility. My love to his mother. 
 Pilgrim sends his something or other it was not very clear. 
 I think he is going to pull through. There is, in my rooms, a 
 double-barrel express-rifle. Send it down to me in a box, and 
 label it ' fishing-rods ' or ' tracts.' " 
 
 Harry Swan wick left a note at John Fairthorne's 
 to the effect that Pilgrim was doing well, and went 
 home to give Tom's letter to Margaret. She read it 
 twice, and said at last that they would not have any 
 satisfactory news until Archer wrote, and that things
 
 292 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 about the boundaries and her uncle's wishes in re- 
 gard to them seemed to be in a queer snarl. "When 
 Harry mentioned the mislaid letter-book she became 
 silent, and then said : 
 
 "That woman is at the bottom of it. Mary was 
 right. I should like to know what it all means. We 
 shall never be allowed to see the copies, but some 
 day we shall see the letters." 
 
 "The mischief is done, Madge; and, after all, 
 Heaven knows what that old man may have writ- 
 ten.'' 
 
 "No; Mrs. Hunter is at the bottom of the matter. 
 If she were not, we should have seen the letter-book. 
 Either she was afraid or meant to screen Uncle 
 John. ' ' 
 
 "The latter seems the more likely."
 
 XXX 
 
 [WO weeks passed by, and March was 
 nearing its close. Archer had written 
 that Pilgrim was slowly mending, but 
 suffered a good deal. Springer had 
 become the sworn friend of Tom, who 
 had promised him that he should have a legal title 
 to his farm. The boys had come in, and Tom was 
 off with them after bears. Mrs. Springer had a new 
 gown. Tom and the doctor had come to some kind 
 of an agreement with the mountain men, and there 
 was peace for the present. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter was at ease, and began to spin more 
 spider-webs, and Mary to make arrangements for 
 their annual moving to their country home in April. 
 She had new cause for annoyance. Her uncle had 
 told Margaret that the rooms she and her children 
 usually occupied at Edgewood would be needed for 
 Mrs. Hunter. In fact, he did not see how he could 
 take them at all. But he would like to have Jack 
 and his nurse. 
 
 Madge said that where she went Jack must go, 
 and with difficulty restrained herself from warmer 
 speech. She was less impulsive than Mary, and per- 
 haps, too, was less indifferent as to what her uncle 
 might be driven to do in regard to his estate. To
 
 294 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 do her full justice, it was less the thought of herself 
 than of Harry and her children that kept down the 
 angry answer with which her sister received a like 
 statement from Mr. Fairthorne. Mary knew that 
 not to have her summer home at Edgewood would be 
 a sad loss for Madge and an inconvenience as con- 
 cerned expenditures. She said as much to her uncle. 
 
 She had learned that to find fault w r ith Lucretia 
 only excited him ; of her, therefore, she said nothing. 
 When she mentioned that it would hurt her to lose 
 this summer company, he replied : 
 
 "Well, why don't you go with her to the shore?" 
 adding that he was willing to pay expenses. 
 
 Then Mary, vexed beyond endurance, said: "No 
 one shall drive me out of my home, neither Mrs. 
 Hunter nor you. If you insist on this banishing of 
 Madge, and really desire to get rid of us, I will go ; 
 but you must say so plainly, and I shall go and never 
 return. But as you sometimes change your mind, I 
 should like you to say distinctly on paper what you 
 want." 
 
 Upon this he declared that he never changed his 
 mind and that when he wanted to talk things over 
 he was always misunderstood. Perhaps later, in 
 July, they might come. He was getting confused. 
 
 "Then I remain, uncle, and I trust that you will 
 see that you are going to give occasion to a good deal 
 of gossip if you persist in allowing this woman to 
 drive us out and to rule your house." 
 
 He began to state in an elaborate way how essen- 
 tial to his work Lucretia had become, and wandered 
 on until he forgot and repeated himself endlessly,
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 295 
 
 while the girl listened sadly as she stood by his chair 
 and saw that he was losing all that had once made 
 him an attractive companion. 
 
 At last she said boldly: "Well, then, I am to un- 
 derstand that Madge and Harry are to go to Edge- 
 wood as usual?" 
 
 "I will think about it," he said. "I am always 
 misunderstood. ' ' 
 
 "Then I will talk it over with Mrs. Hunter, 
 uncle." 
 
 ' ' Yes, yes ; I wish you would. That will do. ' ' He 
 was tired, and willing to accept terms. Mrs. Hunter 
 had for the first time found him a little hard to 
 manage. He had yielded when she suggested that 
 Jack and the nurse might come. 
 
 Mary went at once to Mrs. Hunter's room and 
 knocked. Mrs. Hunter laid aside her study of the 
 pleasant figures in her bank-book and rose. 
 
 "So glad to see you, Mary." 
 
 "No, I will not sit down. I have already twice 
 reminded you that I am Miss Fairthorne. I am 
 Mary for my friends." 
 
 Then Lucretia knew that hostilities had opened. 
 The "Mary" was pure insolence and meant to annoy. 
 
 "Pray pardon me, what can I do for you?" 
 
 "Nothing. I come from my uncle to say that my 
 sister will, as usual, have her own rooms at Edge- 
 wood. What you have to do with it I cannot see, 
 but as my uncle wished me to speak of it I have 
 done so." 
 
 Mrs. Hunter was for the moment disconcerted and 
 silent. She was not easily routed, but something in
 
 296 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 the cold quiet of the erect and dignified girl who 
 spoke confused her wits. She said : " Of course, of 
 course. I will speak to Mr. Fairthorne." 
 
 At this Mary lost her temper. 
 
 "You will speak of it ! I have endured from you, 
 Mrs. Hunter, more than I could ever have believed 
 I could bear. I think you a designing adventuress. 
 ^/ You have separated my cousin from me. You have 
 fooled and flattered a weak old man and made end- 
 less mischief. I trust that some day you will suffer 
 for it. If we were men I should long ago have laid 
 v/ a horsewhip across your shoulders. ' ' She advanced 
 as she spoke, tall, flushed, and angry. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter stepped back in honest alarm, and, 
 tripping over a rocking-chair, fell on the bed with a 
 faint cry. She was on her feet in a moment, reas- 
 sured and furious. 
 
 "I shall lay this whole matter before your uncle. 
 I am not a servant. ' ' 
 
 "Pray omit nothing," said Mary, as she went to 
 her own room. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter sat down. She had been thwarted 
 by the will and sagacity of a girl. She felt that 
 she would have to live in an atmosphere entirely hos- 
 tile if the Swan wicks spent the summer at Edge- 
 wood. She had definite views as to what she desired, 
 and had recently worked out conceptions as clear of 
 how she would bring her plan to a successful issue. 
 It would evidently be desirable to act sooner than she 
 had meant to do. Her brief anger cooled quickly. 
 
 Not so that of the larger nature. Mary went to her 
 room still feeling the effects of recent passion. It
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 297 
 
 would leave her physically weak for a day, as she 
 knew full well. She took herself to task and, while she 
 threw out anchors of good resolutions against future 
 occasions, she was not altogether displeased at the 
 defeat her diplomacy had brought about. She had 
 other cause for satisfaction. Archer had written to 
 her on his way South that her uncle might need ad- 
 vice, and had asked her to suggest Dr. Miller. Mary 
 replied, thanking him, but although she wrote no 
 more he continued to send her letters. She told 
 Madge how interesting were his descriptions of the 
 mountain people, but did not offer to show his letters. 
 He rarely and never willingly talked of himself. 
 Why did he write of his life and ambitions, of the 
 strain the war had brought? 
 
 When, after her talk, Mary was calm enough to 
 use a pen she wrote to Madge that the summer plans 
 were not to be disturbed. She sent off a servant 
 with the note, and went back to her uncle's study. 
 Mrs. Hunter was writing at her desk. 
 
 " Uncle," said Mary, "I have written to Madge 
 that the misapprehension as to your summer plans 
 is over, and that you desire her to occupy her own 
 rooms as usual." 
 
 He looked up from a French catalogue of auto- 
 graphs and said : 
 
 ''Why, yes, of course. What was it I said? Oh, 
 about rooms. Mrs. Hunter must be taken care of." 
 
 Pausing in her work, Mrs. Hunter said : 
 
 "I hope not to be in the way or to incommode 
 Mrs. Swanwick or Miss Fairthorne. ' ' She turned to 
 Mary as she spoke. Her eyes, commonly wide open,
 
 298 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 contracted to a narrow slit. For the first time since 
 she had known Lucretia, Mary felt a touch of some- 
 thing akin to fear. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter had not fulfilled her promise of com- 
 plaining to Mr. Fairthorne. She did not now mean 
 to do so. Mr. Fairthorne looked about him as if 
 bewildered, and said, "What, what!" a way he had. 
 
 "Do not trouble yourself further, sir," said Mary. 
 "Mrs. Hunter and I are quite at one about it." 
 
 ' ' Ah, just so, just so, ' ' and here the matter rested.
 
 XXXI 
 
 :RS. HUNTER took care that Mr. Fair- 
 thorne should not have cause to com- 
 plain of the loss of his daily visits from 
 Archer, and for a week there had, in- 
 deed, been no real need for a physi- 
 cian. Meanwhile she kept the letter-book out of 
 view, and in the face of family criticism and curios- 
 ity Fairthorne got into the mental attitude of being 
 wronged by what was certainly the fault of his own 
 much amended instructions. Swanwick had been 
 very insistent in his desire to see the letters. Mar- 
 garet had been inquisitive. Mrs. Hunter, equal to 
 the situation, assured Mr. Fairthorne that all this 
 inquiry into his private affairs was an impertinence, 
 and he made this plain to all concerned, dismissing 
 as usual all that might cause discomfort. The hus- 
 band and wife felt that there was nothing to do 
 except to wait for the chance of seeing the letters 
 Pilgrim had received, and were in fact too far from 
 guessing the truth to make a further struggle for 
 the production of the letter-book. Enough was 
 hinted or said frankly to trouble the old man, and 
 he swore they wanted to kill him, and as usual com- 
 plained of his heart. Mrs. Hunter insisted that he 
 had only to exercise will-power to be stronger, that
 
 300 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 he must do a little more each day and that all doc- 
 tors were both needless and costly. If, however, he 
 felt relieved from the despotism of Archer's common 
 sense, he soon missed the fresh air of the active outer 
 world which the physician brought to a house into 
 which nowadays few interesting persons came. Mrs. 
 Hunter, with all her surface cleverness and manu- 
 factured gaiety, was too much with him to be con- 
 
 ^stantly what Archer was for the hour a wholesome 
 ^ mental tonic. When he complained of his heart Mrs. 
 Hunter assured him of the value of her own means 
 of relief, until one afternoon, when she had allowed 
 him to double the length of his usual walk in the 
 garden, he suddenly exclaimed that he was giddy and 
 that his heart hurt him. Mrs. Hunter with difficulty 
 succeeded in getting him into the drawing-room. 
 He sank on a sofa and said he was going to die, and 
 they must send for Archer at once. His death was 
 the last thing in the world Mrs. Hunter desired just 
 yet. She rang the bell, and then stood still a mo- 
 ment with her finger on his pulse. When the ser- 
 vant came a little brandy was brought and given him, 
 and he felt better. He asked for Mary. She had 
 gone out. He said he "must have a doctor." Mrs. 
 Hunter, saying she would get a physician at once, 
 left him with the servant and wrote a note summon- 
 ing Dr. Soper in haste. He arrived within an hour 
 and found Mr. Fairthorne, as he told the doctor, 
 
 , "quite well." A little rest and the stimulant had 
 v set him right for the time, and he was in the condi- 
 tion of rather agreeable excitement which often fol- 
 lows relief from pain and alarm.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 301 
 
 The benignant doctor sat down, considerately 
 grave, and with a finger on the pulse and a large 
 watch in his hand, smiled reassurance. His presence 
 puzzled the old man. 
 
 ' ' I suppose you could n 't find Archer, Lucretia ? ' ' 
 
 Dr. Soper said: "He is away in Virginia. For a 
 time I fear you must put up with me." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Fairthorne, "of course. I was 
 quite well aware of that." He was troubled at his 
 own lapse of memory. 
 
 "These attacks upset me. What is it? What 's 
 wrong ? Is it serious ? ' ' 
 
 He had not the least desire to know any too posi- 
 tive truth about his heart. He guessed at its gravity, 
 but did not want it to be put before him with the 
 emphasis of a physician's words. Soper understood. 
 He went through the usual forms of examination 
 with, "Ah, sound arteries ! What a chest ! Wonder- 
 ful Fairthorne constitution! No cause for uneasi- 
 ness! Not the least !" 
 
 Mr. Fairthorne knew the doctor well, and now, 
 more at ease, began to take humorous interest in his 
 ways, as Soper again expressed his regret at Archer 's 
 absence and his own pleasure in having, even for a 
 time, the care of Mr. Fairthorne. Yes, perhaps it 
 was only a little indigestion ; might he suggest milk 
 in place of cocoa? Fairthorne said he hated milk, 
 and Soper retired from this idea, and would in that 
 case advise his cocoa being taken weaker. Fair- 
 thorne, much pleased, replied that it was too weak 
 already. Soper fell back on an inquiry into the diet 
 of the preceding day, and finally thought a little calo-
 
 302 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 mel desirable. Fairthorne said it never agreed with 
 him and was deuced old-fashioned. The doctor, who 
 knew that the patient really needed nothing, and 
 yet that, being called and a doctor, he must of course 
 do something, said: "Quite true; an interesting idio- 
 syncrasy. It will perhaps be as well for the time 
 to continue the heart tonic Dr. Archer has been 
 giving, and I will drop in to-morrow." Then he com- 
 plained a little of the overwhelming nature and 
 amount of his work, and went away, his watch re- 
 minding him of an important consultation. 
 
 He was hardly out of ear-shot when John Fair- 
 thorne exclaimed : ' ' Why the devil did you send for 
 that old humbug ? ' ' 
 
 "Why," said Lucretia, patting his hand as he lay 
 on the lounge, "because he will not insist on dosing 
 a man who is not ill. He does not know even his 
 own stupid business. What is needed is to know you, 
 sir, your vitality, your will-power, your recuperative 
 energy. ' ' 
 
 It was silly enough, but it pleased a man who was 
 losing both will and ability to examine the grounds 
 of flattery ; for, alas ! it is dear to age, as a greater 
 than Fairthorne once honestly confessed. 
 
 He said in reply that she might be correct, that at 
 all events he had no belief in dosing, and that a doc- 
 tor who was a fool was next best to none at all. 
 
 ' ' How clever ! ' ' said Mrs. Hunter, rapturously. 
 ' ' How very clever ! I must remember that, ' ' and she 
 let her long fingers stray over his gray locks until he 
 fell asleep. 
 
 She had future need of this pliant, self-satisfied
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 303 
 
 physician. That afternoon late, when Mr. Fair- 
 thorne released his secretary, she went out with much 
 upon her mind. She walked fast, an upright, 
 strangely handsome woman, one of whom observant 
 people were apt to say, ''What a striking face! 
 Who is she ? ' ' She was tired of John Fairthorne and 
 the autographs and the books she made believe to 
 like. In fact, she was bored, and longed for a gayer 
 and less dignified life. If she had made her way 
 through the inner gates of the old town she would 
 for a time have been satisfied with what its social 
 welcome implied, rather than with what it gave, but 
 the air was inimical. She made no agreeable ac- 
 quaintances. She was merely John Fairthorne 's 
 handsome secretary. People smiled or laughed, and 
 she was left to her loneliness and her constant fears 
 for Lionel. She walked on and did a little shop- 
 ping, and charged things needed or not to Mr. Fair- 
 thorne 's account, aware that he would pay without 
 inconvenient questions. She had many ways of man- 
 aging him. To be in her room a day with a head- 
 ache was effective, or to find in a catalogue a desired 
 autograph. She went on devising, planning, think- 
 ing, and, above all, stoutly facing the one terrible 
 embarrassment Luke Pilgrim. 
 
 A homelike quiet blessed the house on Pine Street 
 where formerly lived that rector of St. Peter's 
 Church who thought it his duty to point out to Wash- 
 ington the need to betray his country. The rector 
 lies near by in St. Peter's graveyard; the accom- 
 plished mischief-maker who carried his letter rests 
 at peace close to the wall of the mother church. Of
 
 304 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 the generations who had since gone in and out of 
 the house none could have furnished so strange 
 a group of people as were here met on a Sunday 
 evening. 
 
 The two little ladies fitly represented the colonial 
 folk who looked from their walls. Martin Blount 
 illustrated the force of a breed which no accidents 
 of fate could permanently subdue, the Puritan blood 
 of a succession of ministers, colonial governors, and 
 Indian-fighters. The chances of life had brought 
 this last of them down to the plow-handle. He was 
 on his way up, shy of being helped, hating money 
 obligations, resolute, conscientious, a little too sure 
 of himself, rapidly acquiring the manners and habits 
 which, under kindlier social conditions, he would not 
 have needed to be taught. He was pleased, in his 
 good-humored fashion, with his double acquisition of 
 knowledge and the courtesies of life. Moreover, he 
 was conscious of the generous quality of these people 
 who had busied themselves with the rough New Eng- 
 land boy. In some ways he resembled the man who 
 had found it pleasant to help him. 
 
 Roger Grace represented another type of our peo- 
 ple. He came of the sturdy Presbyterian Scotch- 
 Irish who very early settled the hill country of Penn- 
 sylvania and protected the Quaker scalps of the 
 lower countries. From a little community of small 
 farming folk he had come to the city with five dollars 
 and a genius for finance. He held sturdily to his reli- 
 gion, and had, as we have seen, other qualities and 
 undeveloped tastes which he was agreeably discover- 
 ing with all the zest of an explorer, and learning
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 305 
 
 to educate with the assimilative capacity of the 
 American. 
 
 And last there was the gaunt form of Knellwood, 
 now convalescent, the offspring of one of those fami- 
 lies which for generations found in the navy the life 
 they liked best. He had amazed them, after his re- 
 covery from a long illness, by resigning from the 
 Naval Academy at Annapolis and entering the 
 church. 
 
 On Sunday evening they were accustomed to col- 
 lect in Miss Markham's parlor to talk or read, as best 
 pleased them. 
 
 Miss Letitia looked about her at the two men, who 
 were now silent. How comfortable it was to feel 
 at ease as to her rent and much beside ! 
 
 Her sister was watching the face of Roger Grace. 
 He had looked serious of late, and to-night was almost 
 austere. What was it that troubled him? He had 
 talked to her with such glad freedom as he had never 
 used before to man or woman. What could have 
 disturbed his almost proverbial good nature, which 
 had so often brought peace into boards of directors, 
 and restored to men the power to consider matters 
 calmly? He was gazing at the fire and now and 
 then moving as if uneasy. His partners and clerks 
 well knew the mood which sometimes came in the 
 spring and dreaded the accompanying irritability 
 which set every one on edge. He said it was the 
 \S gout, and was pretty sure to decide that he must go 
 to Saratoga or Bedford, and to return in high good 
 humor and perfect health ; but of this Miss Clemen- 
 tina knew nothing.
 
 V 
 
 306 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Mr. Knellwood sat still, with a copy of the Apocry- 
 pha in his hand. He smiled as he turned to the 
 banker, saying: "You should quote contexts, Mr. 
 Grace, when you knock down a clergyman with a 
 text. ' ' He was very pleasant, this big man, when he 
 let himself be natural, and now he was experiencing 
 that exhilarating sense of returning vigor which 
 makes convalescence delightful. 
 
 Grace sat up, and, conscious of effort, shook off 
 the captivity of the mood he had learned to fear. 
 
 "What is it? "he said. 
 
 "Miss Clementina shall judge. Mr. Grace has had 
 me at his mercy, and lectures me daily as to what he 
 calls my wicked neglect of my health. I think it is 
 merely an unfair mode of revenge for the dull ser- 
 mons he has heard from his youth up. ' ' 
 
 "And what is it now?" asked Clementina, while 
 Blount reluctantly laid aside his book to listen. 
 
 "Oh, he quoted for my benefit this advice, this 
 text : 'But this again did even forget his own strength 
 that the righteous might be nourished.' ' 
 
 "I do not know it," said Clementina. 
 
 "It is in the Wisdom of Solomon," said Knell- 
 wood, "and was dreadfully misapplied. At first I 
 did not recall it." 
 
 "No," laughed Grace; "you clergymen rarely 
 know the Bible as do our divines." 
 
 Knellwood laughed quite merrily. "It applied to 
 Jehovah, not to man." He rose as he spoke, add- 
 ing: "I must go, I suppose, and have my bedtime 
 diet." 
 
 "Let him groan," said Grace; "we shall soon have
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 307 
 
 him fat. I promise to hear your first sermon, Knell- 
 wood. ' ' 
 
 "And I," said Martin. ''Miss Letitia takes me 
 to Christ Church." 
 
 "And ought to be ashamed," said Clementina, "to 
 mislead an innocent Presbyterian youth. ' ' With this 
 mildly humorous statement she slyly eyed her sister, 
 who said : ' ' Clementina, that is not quite respectful, 
 nor is it correct." 
 
 Clementina excused herself, and Martin said : ' ' Oh, 
 we are Congregationalisms, not Presbyterians." 
 
 Miss Letitia thought it very bewildering, and how 
 much better it would be if they could all see their 
 errors and come into the only true church! 
 
 "That is good ultimate advice to go to bed on," 
 said Knellwood. "How well you have made me, 
 you dear people ! Good night. ' ' 
 
 Grace followed him. In the hall he said: "I will 
 send my coupe for you to drive to-morrow at noon 
 if it is clear. I want a few minutes' talk with you 
 before I go out in the morning, say about ten. ' ' 
 
 "I am at your service. I wish there were any- 
 thing on earth I could do to make you know how 
 grateful I am, and shall ever be." 
 
 ' ' There is something. Good night. ' ' 
 
 "Ah, Martin," said Grace, meeting him on the 
 stairs, "have you still your mind made up not to 
 oblige me?" 
 
 ' ' Please don 't put it in that way, sir. ' ' He spoke 
 earnestly. "No, I cannot. I go to Bedford in a 
 week." 
 
 "In a week?" said Grace. "Well, I am not very
 
 308 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 much disobliged. This is the third of May, is n't 
 it?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "I am very much in the habit of going to Bedford 
 Springs some time in April or May. It is uncertain. 
 We shall have some rides, I hope. ' ' 
 
 "I don't have much time, what with accounts 
 and the way women ask questions. A hotel clerk is 
 everybody's slave. Good night, sir."
 
 XXXII 
 
 LITTLE before ten next morning the 
 banker sat in his library. The room 
 looked to the south, over brick-paved 
 walks and vine-clad walls. The day 
 was somber. An east wind shook the 
 swaying vine branches and thin rain fell softly on 
 the opening leaves of early May. He gazed at the 
 rows of books on finance and political economy, and 
 then for a moment at what usually pleased him, a fine 
 old "Burgomaster" by some unknown Dutch artist, 
 and a Vandyke lately bought, a resolute-looking sol- 
 dier in dark velvet. He was learning to love art, 
 and, above all, the great portraits, but just now they 
 failed to interest him. He lit a cigar and sat down, 
 with his head in his hands ; he had passed an almost 
 sleepless night, though usually he had the priceless 
 power to sleep serenely, no matter what trials or 
 disasters the day had brought. His cigar went out. 
 He threw it away as Knellwood entered. 
 
 "Sit down," he said. "I have made up my mind 
 to do what it has always seemed to me I could never 
 do. I want to speak of myself. I am in deep waters, 
 in despair." 
 
 "Whatever I, as a priest, can do for you " 
 "Oh, I want a man, not a priest. You are a man.
 
 310 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Why I am telling you what I mean to I cannot fully 
 explain to myself or to you. I know it will not help 
 me it cannot help me. You cannot help me." 
 
 "But God may." 
 
 "Do you suppose I have not gone there for help ?" 
 
 "Pardon me," said Knellwood. ' "Knowing you, I 
 ought not to have said it. I should like you to feel 
 how, with all my heart, I long to serve you who have 
 done so much for me. Perhaps out of the desire I 
 have to assist you a way will open. ' ' 
 
 "It will not, and yet I mean for once to lay bare 
 my trouble. I am a straightforward man, and shall 
 speak plainly. Hear me to the close. Then you 
 will see." 
 
 He told his story clearly, and without emotional 
 emphasis. 
 
 "Before I was born my father and grandfather 
 died drunkards. I never knew it until I was a 
 man. I had no inclination that way. I never have 
 had the usual form of this temptation. I can to 
 this day take without risk, at dinner, my glass of 
 wine. When I was about thirty I had a commer- 
 cial disaster and lost heavily. This was in May. I 
 J was seized with a sudden desire to drink oh, to put 
 it brutally, to get drunk. From that day to this it 
 comes again once in two or three years. Sometimes, 
 as last spring, I can overcome it. This year it is on 
 me like oh, nothing I can liken it to will let you 
 know its power. When it comes as it does this year 
 I am gone. I yield. I give up." 
 
 "But, dear friend, are you not over-stating it? 
 How can it be ? You, of all men ! ' '
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 311 
 
 "I am impotent when it comes. I use all the 
 brains I have to defend my good name. I go away 
 to some remote little town. I calmly arrange to be 
 cared for, not as Roger Grace; then I drink and 
 drink. When I am through with it I go to some 
 spring and cleanse myself of the consequences. I 
 return at last, feeling physically well and clear in 
 mind." 
 
 The barren simplicity of this statement appalled 
 the good priest. How bewildering was the thing 
 he had felt so hopeful of assisting with some one of 
 the many kindly formulas he had been wont to find 
 of value! For a moment .neither spoke, until Grace 
 went on : 
 
 "I need not say that I have been in constant 
 terror of exposure. I am a more sensitive man than 
 you would think it possible for one like me to be. 
 I have lived, I think, an upright life. I have tried 
 to be all a man ought to be. In my own church, 
 in hospitals, and financial boards I am, I believe, 
 useful and respected. Of late years I have learned 
 how to enjoy what my youth never knew, the so- 
 cial contact with men and women whose happier 
 chances have brought them refinement and culti- 
 vated tastes. I made friends you, the Swanwicks, 
 and others. My God ! Knellwood, if this were 
 ever known I should simply give up and go away 
 for years." 
 
 "Is that all?" asked Knellwood. "And may I 
 now say what I in my poor way think ? ' ' 
 
 "Not yet. There is worse. I know I shall yield, 
 give up, go some day in a week or two or later, shall
 
 312 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 go as a man on an avalanche goes helpless. And 
 this year we are on the verge of a financial crisis. 
 Personally I am safe ; but I am bound to protect by 
 money and counsel many interests. There are weak 
 institutions to be upheld by me and others. I ought 
 to be here, and yet at the hour of need I may be 
 lying senseless and mindless. One word more, the 
 saddest of all, and over it I hesitate. I have been 
 a lonely man, Knellwood. I have had, until I came 
 to this house, no real home, no serious thought of 
 y the possibility of a wife and children. Pity me, my 
 friend; I have learned that the little lady, Miss 
 Clementina, may in time be willing to share my life. 
 Poor fool that I was! It made me happy. But 
 now, with this anguish of guilty craving on me, how 
 can I ? How can I ? Last spring I mastered it, and 
 rather easily. That is that was my sole excuse. 
 It would not be right now, would it, Knellwood?" 
 
 He was at last growing emotional, and sat with 
 
 flushed and working face, drumming nervously on 
 
 the table. "One word of excuse for troubling you. 
 
 No, do not speak; let me finish. I said I did not 
 
 know why I was willing to open my sad secret to 
 
 you. It was not quite correct. It was because I 
 
 trust you to answer honestly the one question which 
 
 most pains me: if, having so nearly committed my- 
 
 / self as I have, I am not still right to refuse to ask 
 
 V a woman to share a stained and ignoble life ? ' ' 
 
 "No, a thousand times no. You are wrong." 
 
 Grace shook his head. 
 
 "I hoped you would agree with me. I did hope 
 you would. If you could only see it as I do."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 313 
 
 "I do not. Think it over." 
 
 "It is useless. I should have felt strengthened 
 for an inevitable duty had you agreed with me. 
 Let us leave it. J thank you. I am a lost and a 
 most unhappy man." 
 
 Knellwood put out one of his large hands, the 
 hand of an athlete and a gentleman, took that of 
 Grace, and pressing it gently dropped it. It had 
 seemed so easy to say to a penitent, Do this, or that, 
 and the like, but the strength and the spiritual force 
 of this man forbade the use of what had often 
 seemed to him helpful. What could he say, who 
 was himself in the grip of a maddening tempta- 
 tion! With anguish at the thought that here was 
 a case for which, yearn as he might, he had no 
 available remedy, he spoke: 
 
 "Mr. Grace, as a priest I have no suggestion to 
 make. You know as well as I what to do. I shall 
 pray for you to be delivered from this temptation." 
 
 Grace smiled the curious smile which Margaret 
 had described as pathetic. 
 
 "I am not disappointed." 
 
 "But I have not finished," said his friend. "You 
 overrate the effects of a possible exposure. Were it 
 known it would be your duty to remain and fight , 
 it out." 
 
 "Never! I could not! I should flee like a 
 leper." 
 
 "Let us drop that just now. This seems to me 
 a case in which a doctor, a man like Archer, might 
 be worth something. Have you ever asked him or 
 any one?"
 
 314 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "No. If I asked any one it would be Sydney 
 Archer. He is absent, and Mr. Pilgrim, I hear, is 
 worse. He will not leave him, so he writes. I can 
 fight for a while, but then I am gone all of a sudden, 
 like a dismasted ship on a lee shore." 
 
 "May I not go with you?" 
 
 "No, no. I should like you to know only Roger 
 Grace sober; and let no thought of helping me 
 through another tempt you to speak of this, not to 
 Archer, not to any one." 
 
 ' ' Surely not, ' ' and yet he felt sorry thus to pledge 
 himself. "But if Archer return?" 
 
 "He will not be in time." He stood up, looking 
 at his watch. ' ' I have to meet some railroad people. 
 You must now, and in my absence in fact, always 
 use this as your study. Over there is your table, 
 as you know. You will not go out, as it 's raining. ' ' 
 
 When Grace had left him Knellwood sat down 
 and gave himself to thought of his friend. It was 
 useless. He set it all aside, sorry and hopeless. 
 Now that he could drive out, it was absolutely neces- 
 sary to thank Miss Morrow for the constant kind- 
 ness shown him. Although the wine, the game, and 
 the flowers left at the house were nearly always ac- 
 companied by John Fairthorne's card, he knew very 
 well that when his carriage brought these luxuries 
 it was Miss Kitty who asked in person how he was. 
 Since that evening at Mrs. Swan wick's he had been 
 able to avoid her, and then had come his illness. 
 Was it sent in kindness? More and more, with the 
 return of health, he feared her and feared himself. 
 
 He most earnestly believed that no priest should
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 315 
 
 marry, and began to wish that some unbreakable 
 vow of celibacy armed him against a temptation of 
 which he felt ashamed. He resolved that opportu- 
 nity should not add to his peril and that he would 
 go in person and thank Mr. Fairthorne. Miss 
 Kitty's notes, which now came often, he had not an- 
 swered. They were tender inquiries, really needing 
 no reply. He had written thanking her, saying that 
 he was forbidden to write much and begging that she 
 would not tax him further. It was a cold note, 
 and when she showed it to Mrs. Hunter that lady, to 
 whom Kitty had at last confessed herself freely, said 
 that Knellwood was a priest and not a man, and that 
 it was hopeless. Kitty cried a good deal, and waited, 
 confident and unused to defeat. 
 
 With the instinct of her kind, she ceased to seek 
 any form of communication with the man for whom 
 she would have made any sacrifice. She gave up 
 writing him notes or speaking of him, so that Mrs. 
 Hunter, accustomed to listen and console, became 
 uneasy at what she did not understand. She trusted 
 no one, and was at once suspicious. She herself had 
 no femininity, and did not see through Kitty's com- 
 monplace game, but she meant that no one should 
 marry Kitty, and that some day they should travel 
 together abroad. As to Knell wood's views on celi- 
 bacy interfering between him and a pretty woman, 
 well dowered, she laughed.
 
 XXXIII 
 
 [ARGARET," said Swanwick, one day 
 before dinner, "all sorts of things are 
 happening. Here is a letter from 
 Archer. He will be back in three days. 
 What a friend he is! Think of the 
 confusion and loss and sacrifice for a busy doctor to 
 give a month to a friend." 
 
 "Yes, it is fine. He is an ideal friend. Do you 
 remember that some one called the poet Donne 'the 
 priest of friendship'? It is the harder for Archer, 
 because he needs all he can make. Ah, I wish I 
 were he for a month ! ' ' 
 "Why, Madge?" 
 
 "I should marry that sister of mine. Kitty is out 
 of the game, thank Heaven! Why do men want 
 her?" 
 
 "How do I know?" But he did. 
 "Well, what else?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing. Pilgrim will not come to us. He 
 has rooms at the Continental. I am sorry ' ' 
 
 "You spoke of all manner of news. What else 
 is there?" 
 
 "Oh, there is mischief brewing in money mat- 
 ters and more rumors about that confounded Re- 
 public Trust." 
 
 316
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 317 
 
 "You were wise to insist on giving up as its 
 counsel." 
 
 ''Was I not? I went in to see Grace on my way 
 down-town, because, now more than ever, he wants 
 Uncle John to hold his stock or to let him take it 
 in block at par. It is down to ninety. Your uncle 
 once refused his offer, and, I fancy, believed that 
 Grace Grace, of all people meant to take some 
 unfair advantage." 
 
 "That seems incredible." 
 
 "No. He thinks honor is not found outside of a 
 small number of people who have great-grandfa- 
 thers. I wanted to get Grace's advice and then talk 
 again to Mr. Fairthorne." 
 
 "He is getting to be very dull-minded, Harry, and 
 very cross. I never before saw him fail to take 
 notice of Jack. Mrs. Hunter used to go out when 
 I called; now she does not. Mary is never with 
 my uncle. She was driven away, and is not to be 
 blamed for absence." 
 
 "That is all true," he returned; "and the old man 
 is obviously breaking up. Now and then he is his 
 old self for an hour." 
 
 "But what happened, Harry? What did Mr. 
 Grace say?" 
 
 "I did not see him. Mr. West, his partner, said 
 he had left town for New York yesterday and would 
 be absent two or three weeks, and at such a time 
 that seems strange. When I pushed West a little, 
 he said, 'Mr. Swanwick, about once in a year or 
 two Mr. Grace gets so unreasonable and so irritable 
 that we are driven frantic. It is gout, I suppose ; \i
 
 318 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 he says it is. At last he declares he can stand it 
 no longer, and goes away, usually to Bedford. He 
 orders that no letters be sent and disappears. He 
 comes back, and is pleasant and well. Every one 
 here knows his way, but just now it is serious. Of 
 course I shall wire and write in case of need.' 
 Then he asked me, as their counsel, one or two ques- 
 tions, and I left. On my way out of their office I 
 met that insufferable cub Craig. He said, 'How 
 are you, Mr. Swan wick ? Getting hot in Wall Street, 
 they say.' I said I had no interest in stocks or 
 Wall Street. 'Well, the boss has gone. He was past 
 standing. I tell you, Mr. Swan wick, if it was n't 
 for well, no gentleman ought to be addressed, sir, 
 in the terms he used to me.' I think he had been 
 drinking. I said that this concerned me still less. 
 He probably had got a sharp wigging from some 
 one." 
 
 "Is n't there something singular about Mr. Grace's 
 being away just now?" 
 
 "Certainly, my dear. You are quite right. As 
 things look, nothing but grave illness could ex- 
 plain or excuse it; and to order that no letters be 
 sent!" 
 
 "Oh ! I presume Mr. West will disobey that ; you 
 said as much." 
 
 "Of course," and they talked of other matters. 
 The woman, however, continued to wonder, having 
 herself noticed that Mr. Grace had lost his spirits. 
 
 The day the banker left, Knellwood received a 
 note stating that he had gone to New York and else- 
 where. It said simply :
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 319 
 
 " I go because I must. I go to the neglect of plain duty. No 
 one who has been in the clutches of a temptation like mine can 
 imagine the almost mechanical certainty of its action. It is 
 like a machine. I have an awful joy in having yielded. I look 
 forward and can hardly wait. Burn this." 
 
 The rector sadly obeyed.
 
 xxxrv 
 
 I HE day was warm and pleasant, a May 
 morn of sunshine. Felisa sat on the 
 window-ledge, sole inhabitant of the 
 study. Mary Fairthorne entered and 
 looked about her, surprised to find her 
 uncle later than the hour of ten. She sat down at 
 the window and patted Felisa. Mrs. Hunter came 
 in, followed by Dr. Soper. The cat walked across 
 the room and leaped on to the table. Lucretia set 
 her on her shoulder, while the fat doctor said : 
 
 "Good morning, Mary. Quite remarkable, the at- 
 tachment of animals, quite. I find your uncle un- 
 usually well, unusually well. I have just left him. ' ' 
 "But, doctor, he seems to me to be far from well." 
 "I think you should be very careful," said Mrs. 
 Hunter. "The least hint of that kind depresses 
 him." 
 
 "How he is to hear it except through you," said 
 Mary, "I cannot imagine. Good-bye, doctor," and 
 she left the room. 
 
 "You see, my dear doctor," said Lucretia, "what 
 I have to endure. Nothing except my attachment 
 to this dear old man enables me to bear it." 
 
 He said that it was sad very, and they talked
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 321 
 
 awhile of Mr. Fairthorne. He had desired Dr. Soper 
 to continue in charge when Dr. Archer should re- 
 turn. The doctor was distressed, but if Mr. Fair- 
 thorne really insisted he would of course see Dr. 
 Archer or write and explain. When on his way out 
 he met Mary and said how deeply he regretted this 
 unfortunate whim of her uncle, Mary was a little 
 indignant and a good deal amused. She failed to 
 conceal her feelings altogether, and said that it 
 would at least relieve Dr. Archer; how soon would 
 her uncle desire to change his nieces? 
 
 "If," she added, "you would kindly arrange to 
 have him change that gipsy witch you would oblige 
 the entire family." 
 
 The doctor said : ' ' Quite so, quite ; very good joke, 
 Mary. Can't be helped very hard," and went 
 away, well pleased with himself. Soon after he left 
 the house Harry Swanwick came in. 
 
 "I want to see Uncle John," he said to Mary. 
 
 "He has just come down, I think. I will go up 
 with you. It is getting rather dramatic here. 
 Archer is dismissed." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 "And Soper promoted. The gipsy" 
 
 "Gipsy, Mary?" 
 
 ^ "Yes, I have found her out. That is where the 
 Oriental look comes from. Try her in Romany. I 
 wish I knew it. ' ' 
 
 "How absurd, Mary! Anything else new?" 
 
 "No. Sometimes we cross swords. If it gets past 
 endurance I talk firmly to uncle. He is fast failing, 
 but to-day, when I saw him in his bedroom, he was 
 
 21
 
 322 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 gay and sarcastic his old self; I suppose only a 
 doctor can explain that." 
 
 When they entered the library Mrs. Hunter was 
 at the window, looking over papers. 
 
 "Halloa, Harry," said Fairthorne. "How are 
 you? Sit down. Show him the new autographs." 
 
 Mrs. Hunter rose. 
 
 ' ' Here is a rare letter of Cranmer and one of Mar- 
 tin Bucer." 
 
 Harry had not the most dim idea who Martin 
 Bucer might be, but he said it was immensely in- 
 teresting. 
 
 "I have to thank Lucretia for it; a fellow in 
 South Street had it." 
 
 "I want, Uncle John, to talk over a matter of 
 business." As Lucretia made no sign of retiring, 
 he continued: "I must see you alone." 
 
 "Well, Mary may go." 
 
 "I said alone, sir. Pardon me." 
 
 "Lucretia knows where everything is. I can't 
 do without her. Go on, what is it?" 
 
 "Then I must write to you." He rose. 
 
 "Oh, damn it! Every one bullies me. I never 
 get my way." 
 
 Lucretia, rising, said : 
 
 "Mr. Swan wick, you are quite right. Mr. Fair- 
 thorne is wrong." She had sat still only to annoy 
 Harry and knew very well that she should hear all 
 that might be said. Mary followed her out of the 
 room. 
 
 Then Harry told, with some reserve, what he knew 
 about Grace's absence and the state of affairs in 
 regard to the Trust Company.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 323 
 
 "Well, sell it," said the old man. "I suppose 
 Grace got away to avoid keeping his promise to me. ' ' 
 This seemed to Harry so absurd as to be hardly 
 worth disputing. To his proposition to sell in small 
 amounts, Mr. Fairthorne said testily: 
 
 "No. Sell it all, at once." 
 
 "At any price? You will ruin the market and 
 lose a good deal of money quite needlessly." 
 
 ' ' Sell it, I said ; sell it ! No banker shall control 
 my private affairs." 
 
 "Very well, sir. Write me an order to sell. " He 
 did so. 
 
 "Archer will be at home in three days and Pil- 
 grim will go to the Continental Hotel. I fear he 
 is in a bad way. ' ' 
 
 "Well, I am sorry. He bungled things badly. 
 As for Dr. Archer, I have been mending ever since he 
 went away. Soper listens, and gives some weight 
 to my opinion. I shall make no change. Mrs. Hun- 
 ter says that the difference is surprising." 
 
 "I think you are making a mistake, but it is your 
 business and not mine. I will see if the firm has 
 any order about the stock." 
 
 It proved that they had no orders, and were still 
 absolutely ignorant as to where Grace could be 
 found. After ten days from his departure letters 
 would find him at Bedford. Those were his final 
 directions. The stock was sold at sixty-five, and 
 the timid began to draw out their deposits from the 
 Trust Company. 
 
 After Swanwick had gone Mrs. Hunter reentered 
 the library with a letter in her hand. Mr. Fair- 
 thorne was walking to and fro in the large room, his
 
 324 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 hands behind his back, his head a little bent for- 
 ward. The habit and the attitude had been frequent 
 with him in health but rare of late, and Lucretia 
 was surprised by the quick way in which he turned 
 to say: 
 
 "File with the autograph of Luther the corre- 
 spondence and vouchers." 
 
 ''Yes, sir." 
 
 "That is a good idea of yours to put in one port- 
 folio forged autographs of interest. See that scoun- 
 drel in South Street, and buy one of those forged 
 letters of my grandfather only one." 
 
 "He promised to burn them, but it is not likely 
 that he has done so. I will see him. ' ' 
 
 "What is that letter?" 
 
 "It is for me, but as it involves a very grave 
 question, I come to you, sir, as to a friend, as to one 
 who has brought peace and almost happiness into 
 my life." 
 
 "What is it? Don't talk twaddle." 
 
 "I do not see how I can leave you." 
 
 "Leave me? What 's all this? You can't leave 
 me. Sit down and explain yourself." 
 
 She dropped on a cushion at his feet and kissed 
 his hand. 
 
 "Take it, read it. It offers me release from care, 
 a sufficient income, and a future of far-reaching use- 
 fulness. If I say yes, I must leave you in the au- 
 tumn, and lose oh, I cannot bear it, and I must 
 I must ' 
 
 John Fairthorne had preferences, but not affec- 
 tions. He liked Lucretia for a variety of selfish rea-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 325 
 
 sons, and more and more he disliked change. He 
 was alarmed. 
 
 "Where are my glasses? Read it to me." 
 
 Lucretia let fall the hand she had taken in her 
 grief, and wiped away what stood for tears. 
 
 "Ah!" she cried. "If I am like a hurt child at 
 the thought of leaving you, when it comes to a final 
 separation what shall I do? I I will try to 
 read it." 
 
 "Do," he said. As to her life and her grief, he 
 considered neither seriously. 
 
 "'DEAR MRS. HUNTER: The trustees of the Wellsburg 
 School for Young Women' 
 
 "Those are the people who wrote to me before. 
 Oh, it is long, sir; I can tell you the contents. It 
 is a largely endowed institution. They speak of my 
 success in New England. They offer me twelve hun- 
 dred a year and a prospect of more. There are other 
 details of no interest." She looked up. "What am 
 I to do?" 
 
 John Fairthorne began at once to use his intelli- 
 gence quite coldly. 
 
 "Are you satisfied here? You get twelve hun- 
 dred a year, and" the old man smiled "a few 
 trifles over." 
 
 "How could I be other than satisfied, but " 
 
 "Yes, I know. If I die? That is where the but 
 comes in. I want you, and I am willing to pay. I 
 don't want affection. I don't object to it. I want 
 attention, company, intelligence. You give them,
 
 326 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 you make yourself agreeable. If I were an impres- 
 sible old fool you might expect more. I am too old 
 to make an ass of myself. My advice is don't! 
 I will make a codicil to my will and leave you thirty 
 thousand dollars. Will that do?" 
 
 She said he was "more than just," but felt that 
 he was bargaining; and how keen he was, how defi- 
 nite ! She rose and thanked him effusively. It was 
 less than she had meant to get, but, after all, she 
 had not yet exhausted her resources. He had made 
 plain that he was not enough of a fool to marry her ; 
 nor was that desirable if she could buy autographs 
 for him, and pocket, a part, and live a year or two as 
 she was doing. These thoughts went swiftly through 
 her mind as she sat by him and varied her thanks, 
 until he said: "Well, we are going to Edgewood 
 shortly. I will ask Swanwick to draw a codicil to 
 my will. I will write to-day. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Hunter did not like this. 
 
 "I think," she said, "that your family will not 
 be pleased. Perhaps some other lawyer?" 
 
 "Nonsense! What has my family to do with it? 
 Do you suppose a man like Swanwick babbles to his 
 wife about wills? Write now. Ask him to come 
 and see me." 
 
 She was far from comprehension of the legal code 
 of honor, but she knew when not to persist and saw 
 too that Fairthorne was tired. When presently he 
 took up a book she sat at her table and caressed the 
 cat, wondering how she should deal with the risks 
 that awaited her on Pilgrim's return. 
 
 By and by he looked up from the book he had
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 327 
 
 been reading, and said : " I want you to understand 
 that this closes the matter. I leave you the money, 
 and you promise not to desert me. It will take effect 
 only if you are with me until I until something 
 happens." 
 
 This was not meant by Lucretia to be in the bond, 
 but she promptly replied : 
 
 "I so understood it, sir. You are more than good 
 to me." 
 
 Next day Harry Swanwick received Mr. Fair- 
 thorne's order to add the codicil. He made no com- 
 ment, but sat down quietly and added it in due form. 
 
 "It will need, sir, two witnesses," he said. The 
 old man rejoined that of course he would see to that, 
 and the will was replaced in the safe in the far cor- 
 ner of the library. 
 
 When from time to time Lucretia reminded Mr. 
 Fairthorne that the codicil was unsigned he showed 
 a certain amount of annoyance and said there was 
 time enough. Yes, Dr. Soper would be a proper 
 witness. Mrs. Hunter began to be uneasy, and the 
 more so because once he appeared to have forgotten 
 it altogether, and was growing less and less his old, 
 satirical self. At last he left the will in a drawer, 
 but would do no more. Anything that involved an- 
 ticipations of death for him was disagreeable. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter resolved upon a definitive move. 
 The will, in a sealed package, still lay ready in the 
 table drawer. Until recently such carelessness as to 
 leave it out of the safe would have been strange to 
 its maker. The days went on, and one morning, see- 
 ing him in good condition, she said :
 
 328 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Mr. Knell wood will be here to-day at noon, and 
 I have asked Dr. Soper to come in at that hour. 
 They will be able to witness the codicil." He was 
 apt on alternate days to be in better possession of 
 his faculties. 
 
 "Well," he said, "get it out of the safe. I am 
 tired of it." 
 
 "It is here," she returned, putting the package 
 on the table. It was now close to twelve, and, to Mrs. 
 Hunter's annoyance, Margaret Swanwick and Mary 
 came in. They spoke to Mrs. Hunter, and began 
 to talk to their uncle of the children and the country. 
 Yes, he was going in two or three days. Kitty was 
 to put the house in order. This amused Margaret, 
 as Kitty had a talent for disorder which was very 
 well recognized in the family. She laughed as she 
 said: 
 
 "Who is to put Kit in order?" 
 
 "Not I," said Mary. "Madge will not come to 
 us until June, uncle." 
 
 "Is that so?" He expressed no regret. "That 
 fellow Grace has bought the Gray house next to his 
 farm. They wanted too much for it. He has al- 
 tered it, I hear. ' ' 
 
 "An agreeable neighbor," said Mary. "Ah, here 
 is Mr. Knellwood." 
 
 He spoke pleasantly to all, and sat down, a large 
 figure in his clerical garb. Mrs. Hunter, a little 
 apart, was eager for the women to go. 
 
 Fairthorne began to talk in his better manner, 
 glad of all this company, and especially of Knell- 
 wood's visit.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 329 
 
 "Well," he said, "are you fit to go back to what 
 you call work? By the way, here is a letter of 
 Bucer 's. He had a good deal to do with your prayer- 
 book of 1549, or was it 1552 ? What a mess you fel- 
 lows are making of it ! I try to twist up Katherine's 
 wits about it, but she says I am wicked and that you 
 know best. You can't tangle Kitty's wits. She has 
 the simplicity of the mindless. A woman wants to 
 cushion her faith comfortably on a church or a man. 
 This time it appears to be a man. Take care, 
 rector." 
 
 "Miss Morrow might have I hope has wiser 
 counselors than I." 
 
 "Apparently she thinks not. I asked her yester- 
 day to clear my head about 'the godly consideration 
 of election' and that Xlllth Article. I hope she has 
 read them, but you seem to have sadly neglected 
 her education." 
 
 Knellwood laughed. "You are not enough in 
 earnest to get a fight out of me to-day." 
 
 "Let him try me," said Madge. 
 
 "Not I. You are disappointing, Knellwood. I 
 am in fine order for a battle and my spiritual neu- 
 trality ought to make me logically valuable to the 
 positive. I am an indiff erentist. " 
 
 "For shame!" cried Mary. 
 
 "Not even an agnostic," he went on, unscrupu- 
 lously pleased to shock the rector of St. Agnes 's. 
 
 "But why, uncle," asked Madge, "do you keep 
 your pew in Christ Church?" 
 
 "Because I was predestined by my great-grand- 
 father."
 
 330 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Knellwood shook his head. 
 
 "Ah, the letter interests you. Here is one of 
 Luther's." 
 
 "We had done far better without him," said 
 Knellwood. "We owe him nothing but confusion." 
 
 "Did you ever notice," said Margaret, "the re- 
 semblance to Luther in the face of young Blount ? ' ' 
 
 "No," said Knellwood. "I like the boy, and I 
 should be sorry to think he looked like Luther. By 
 the by, he has gone to Bedford for the summer." 
 
 "Yes," said Madge; "and with Mr. Grace away 
 you must be quite lonely in Pine Street." 
 
 "I miss them. I came here to thank you, Mr. 
 Fairthorne, for all manner of kindnesses. I should 
 have come before, but I have not been very strong. ' ' 
 
 "I fancy Miss Kitty has been the more active 
 agent," said Fairthorne. 
 
 ' ' I exact my share of thanks, ' ' said Mary, quickly. 
 "You look far better than before your illness. Dr. 
 Archer should be proud of you. He has been de- 
 laying his return, but now we may look for him 
 at any time, so Harry says, or was it to you he 
 wrote, Madge ? ' ' She, too, had heard from him, but 
 of that she said nothing. Mrs. Hunter's knowledge 
 of the mail matter which came to the house made it 
 needless to pretend to conceal such trifles from her. 
 But the ostrich attitude does at all events satisfy the 
 ostrich. 
 
 Dr. Soper failed to come as he had promised, and 
 when, after further chat, Knellwood and the rest 
 went away together, Mrs. Hunter had lost another 
 chance.
 
 XXXV 
 
 WO days later Sydney Archer came 
 home, and having arranged for Pil- 
 grim's comfort at his hotel found time 
 to consider his own affairs. He wrote 
 a dozen notes or letters to thank the 
 friends who had cared for patients and hospital 
 wards during his long absence. He saw one or two 
 people who called for immediate attention, and left 
 himself free for the rest of the day to pick up and 
 arrange the many threads of the life of a man who 
 was a physician, a teacher, and an investigator. He 
 found time at length, after luncheon, for a visit 
 which he felt he must make, and would very gladly 
 have avoided. Among his letters was a civil note 
 from Dr. Soper, expressing his regret at Mr. Fair- 
 thorne's decision to insist on the continuance of his, 
 Soper 's, attendance, etc. 
 
 Archer was a little relieved to escape the constant 
 battle with Mrs. Hunter and the sense of being re- 
 sponsible and yet without control. But, being hu- 
 man and a doctor, the idea of having been displaced 
 by a man of as little intellect as Soper was unpleas- 
 ant, and to owe defeat to Mrs. Hunter made it seem 
 far worse. Mary had written very forcibly of the 
 state of things in John Fairthorne's house, and had 
 331
 
 332 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 asked what was to be done, since Mrs. Hunter man- 
 aged Dr. Soper and there was no longer an inter- 
 ested intelligence at hand to stand between a failing 
 old man and a woman without scruples. Archer 
 smiled as he recalled his last important interview 
 with the secretary. And now he was out of the fight. 
 
 He found Dr. Soper at home, and was cordially 
 welcomed. Archer began : 
 
 "I had heard of Mr. Fairthorne's desire to change, 
 and on my return found your note. I might as 
 usual say a civil word and drop the matter, but these 
 people are old friends, and" 
 
 Soper interrupted: 
 
 "Pray do not trouble yourself. It was quite in- 
 considerate, quite. I fully enter into your feelings, 
 but, after all, what can one do ? These things hap- 
 pen to all of us." 
 
 "The old fool," thought Archer. What he said 
 was: 
 
 "You misunderstand me. I want to say that Mr. 
 Fairthorne is under the control of this Mrs. Hunter. 
 You must have seen it, and perhaps know, too, that 
 to order anything for Mr. Fairthorne is one thing, 
 to be sure that your directions are carried out is 
 quite another." 
 
 "I cannot say that I have experienced that diffi- 
 culty. I have never made the least suggestion that 
 was not received, I may say, with enthusiasm. A 
 very remarkable woman, very." 
 
 "On that I think we may agree, but I wish to 
 say, also, as a friend of the Fairthornes, that you 
 ought to know how most of his relatives feel in re-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 333 
 
 gard to Mrs. Hunter. If my long knowledge of Mr. 
 Fairthorne's case will help you, that too is a part of 
 my purpose. It is in some respects an unusual case. ' ' 
 
 "I cannot say that it appears so to me. When 
 did you get back, and how is Mr. Pilgrim?" He 
 did not refer to the family question or ask about 
 Fairthorne's case. Archer saw that, if needed, he 
 certainly was not wanted. He rose, saying : 
 
 "I shall call on Mr. Fairthorne to-day. I must 
 tell him what Pilgrim cannot as yet do about his Vir- 
 ginia lands. Is he well enough to talk? Clear 
 enough ? ' ' 
 
 "Clear enough? He is as well as you or any one. 
 He has been improving most remarkably. He is 
 buying autographs and books and even changing his 
 will." When the doctor said this he suddenly re- 
 membered that Mrs. Hunter had asked him not to 
 speak of having been asked to be a witness. Con- 
 scious of indiscretion, he babbled on, talking rapidly. 
 Archer ceased to listen. He had seen the conscious 
 look of embarrassment. Had things gone so far 
 that Lucretia was influential and interested in 
 changes in the old man's will ? What did this mean ? 
 How far would it go ? For here was a woman with- 
 out conscience and here were possibilities of unlim- 
 ited mischief. 
 
 Soper went on, relating at length "a most curious 
 case, quite unique, quite." Archer was aware of 
 assisting with "yes" and "indeed," but his mind 
 was elsewhere. 
 
 "Pardon me," he said, as he rose, "do you really 
 think Mr. Fairthorne competent to make a will?"
 
 334 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Dr. Soper replied : 
 
 "Competent? Yes, of course; but perhaps I 
 should not have mentioned the matter." He forgot 
 to ask Archer not to repeat his imprudence. 
 
 Sydney Archer was a man apt to act with deci- 
 sion. He went from Dr. Soper 's to the Fairthorne 
 house, and stood a moment in thought on the white 
 marble step. Then he rang, and had a cheerful wel- 
 come from the old black servant. He went into the 
 parlor, and was about to send up his card when Miss 
 Fairthorne, hearing his voice, came in. There were 
 the ordinary greetings which disguise so much, and 
 Miss Mary said: "Yes, come up-stairs. My uncle is 
 not very well, but he will be glad to see you. We 
 are all more sorry than I can make clear to you that 
 Mrs. Hunter succeeded in putting Dr. Soper in 
 charge, but we are more powerless than ever." 
 
 As they entered the library Mrs. Hunter quickly 
 threw a portfolio upon the mass of papers on the 
 table. The doctor, in this hostile atmosphere, became 
 instantly curious and observant, and noted the haste 
 of Lucretia's movement. That lady retired to a 
 corner and appeared to be deep in a journal, while 
 Mary, excusing herself, left Archer to talk with her 
 uncle. 
 
 "Last night I brought Luke Pilgrim back with me. 
 He is in a rather critical state. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Hunter sat still. At last it had come. The 
 codicil was not signed; Mr. Fairthorne 's mind was 
 uncertain ; he would and would not ; was she strong 
 enough to face boldly a possible disclosure? What 
 would he do ? She listened intently as Archer went
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 335 
 
 on to mention where Pilgrim was staying, and then 
 all that the latter at present desired to have said. 
 Masters would remain at the mine and look af- 
 ter Mr. Fairthorne 's and Pilgrim's interests. In a 
 week or two Mr. Pilgrim might be able to spend a 
 few days in the country at Edgewood. He could 
 then put Mr. Fairthorne in fuller possession of his 
 views as to developing their joint properties. 
 
 Long before he had come to an end Archer saw 
 that Fairthorne had ceased to attend, and therefore 
 cut his statement short. Mr. Fairthorne sat up, and 
 said: ''About joint properties what is that? We 
 have no adjoining lands. And speak louder, Syd- 
 ney. Your voice is indistinct. You Southern peo- 
 ple never half open your mouths when you talk." 
 The old man was fast losing his hearing. Archer 
 began to explain. ' ' Oh, confound it ! Don 't roar 
 at me. I am not deaf, or what Pilgrim calls 'deef.' ' 
 
 He was puzzled by Archer 's statement of the cause 
 of quarrel with the squatters and said it was all a 
 mistake, and that Mrs. Hunter knew about it, and 
 must see Pilgrim and get it cleared up. 
 
 Archer, having done his best to make matters clear, 
 got up to go, grieved at the mental failure of his old 
 friend. Mr. Fairthorne said: "Why, Sydney, you 
 have not felt my pulse." 
 
 "It is not necessary. " As he passed the table he 
 said he wanted a bit of blank paper, and lifted the 
 portfolio to look for it. What Lucretia had desired 
 to hide he saw the will of John Fairthorne. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter knew at once that he had seen the 
 will, but not, of course, what Soper had revealed.
 
 336 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 He took the scrap of paper and wrote on it : " I want 
 to talk with you. Meet me at my house at four." 
 She took the paper and read it as she followed him, 
 about to say no, when she reflected that it might 
 mean a message of moment. It would be best to 
 have it out, whatever it was. She said she could 
 be there at four, as Mr. Fairthorne was unable to 
 drive yes, at four and left him as he went down 
 the stairway, smiling. It was war. She had used 
 his absence to effect her purposes; now it was his 
 turn. Why had she agreed to meet him ? 
 
 "There is something wrong about the woman's 
 past. What is it? She should have asked me to 
 call here if I desired to talk to her. She did not. 
 She rose to that fly. ' ' 
 
 When, that afternoon, Mrs. Hunter found herself 
 alone in the little library, which was also his consult- 
 ing-room, she looked about her with a momentary 
 curiosity. The crowded book-shelves, the accumula- 
 tion of journals on chair and table, indicated the stu- 
 dent, and the spurs, whips, hunting-crops, guns, and 
 rods told how the man amused himself in his days 
 of leisure. A few books of verse, two or three etch- 
 ings, a rare volume or two, the book-lover's cher- 
 ished record of good luck, might have added know- 
 ledge of the man who had asked her hither. Mrs. 
 Hunter sat for the few minutes of waiting deep in 
 thought. 
 
 "I am a little late," said Archer, as he entered. 
 "Pray pardon me." 
 
 "Oh, it would not be difficult to amuse one's self 
 here."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 337 
 
 "As a substitute I fear that you will hardly find 
 me that I mean amusing. I asked you here because 
 we are assured of freedom from interruption as we 
 are not at Mr. Fairthorne's." 
 
 "Certainly, I so understood it. Pray go on." 
 
 He remained standing by the mantelpiece. 
 
 "I did not know clearly, or did not until of late 
 suspect, what you meant to secure during your stay 
 at Mr. Fairthorne's." 
 
 ' ' And you think you know now ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, I do. From the time you got a hold on Mr. 
 Fairthorne you very needlessly antagonized me. I 
 say needlessly because if you had merely nattered 
 and made comfortable a weak old man I should not 
 have cared what reasonable or more than reasonable 
 pay you got out of the business. But to see my 
 orders canceled or changed was a thing no conscien- 
 tious physician could endure." 
 
 "And yet you stood it pretty long." 
 
 "I did, and for good cause." 
 
 "Before we go on, Dr. Archer, allow me to say 
 that I have a real affection for Mr. Fairthorne. I 
 owe him much. Thinking as I do, how could I see 
 him the victim of useless drugs, when I felt that I 
 could insure health by simpler means?" 
 
 "You can hardly expect me to believe you," he 
 said. ' ' Frankly speaking, I do not believe you ; but 
 if you think this answers me personally, let me ask 
 why did you continually go out of your way to 
 harass and annoy Miss Fairthorne ? You have with 
 as little reason made her life unhappy." 
 
 "If," she said, rising, "this is all you can give to
 
 338 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 explain your very singular request that I meet you 
 here, I may as well go." 
 
 "No," he returned, "that was mere introductory 
 matter. You were quite right to decline to answer 
 me. It was idle curiosity on my part. I am, how- 
 ever, as a man may I say as a psychologist? inter- 
 y ested in you. The problem is why an able woman, 
 wanting something, should take pleasure in putting 
 obstacles in her own way." 
 
 Mrs. Hunter, at ease, well dressed, handsome, was 
 never so near to liking Archer. She was grateful 
 for being classed as peculiar. She smiled as she re- 
 sumed her seat. ' ' Perhaps some day I may tell you. 
 But what next? You are interesting; you never 
 were before. ' ' 
 
 "Thanks. In my little battle with you I have 
 been worsted." He laughed. 
 
 "People who cross me do, as a rule, get the worst 
 of it. Dr. Soper is far more manageable. My 
 views are his views." 
 
 "That is certainly convenient, but whether in the 
 end you will be as well off as if you had let me 
 alone may be doubted. You have made a friend of 
 small value and a foe of some force." 
 
 Mrs. Hunter, toying with her parasol, said : 
 
 "Will you kindly explain? You did not bring me 
 here merely to sympathize with a doctor who has lost 
 a valuable patient or to ask my pity for a young 
 girl in whom he is, shall we say, interested. ' ' 
 
 "Stop, Mrs. Hunter. I cannot keep you from say- 
 ing whatever ill-bred impertinence you may choose 
 to bring into our talk, but what I hold in reserve
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 339 
 
 concerns you alone. You will do well to listen. Mr. 
 Fairthorne has made arrangements to alter his will. 
 Dr. Soper was to be one witness. Mr. Fairthorne 
 hesitates. You are the person who will profit." 
 
 A part of this was pure inference. The resolute 
 stillness with which she listened strengthened his 
 belief that he was correct. 
 
 "What next?" she said. 
 
 "Only this: if John Fairthorne has been led to 
 leave you any very large amount of money, you will 
 never get it." 
 
 "Why not?" she cried, sharply. 
 
 "If," he continued, "you are left a moderate 
 legacy you may be allowed the plunder." 
 
 "Really! This passes belief. If I was imperti- 
 nent you have matched me. ' ' 
 
 "No," he said; "this is pure business and very 
 pertinent. Come now, frankly, how much are you 
 to get?" 
 
 She saw by this time that more was meant than a 
 verbal duel. The buttons were off the foils. 
 
 "Suppose, first, you show your own hand," she 
 said, quite coolly. "This may be pure bluff." 
 
 "Well, we stand thus: if you are to have too 
 much, enough to injure others, I can easily show that 
 Mr. Fairthorne is now unfit to make or mend a will. 
 Dr. Soper will desert you when the family make a 
 fight. If your plunder be moderate I will be silent, 
 and no one will interfere. Of course, I speak only 
 as to probability. ' ' 
 
 "You might not find it easy." 
 
 "No, quite true; but a searching history of your
 
 340 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 life in that house would be part of the proceedings, 
 and a little study of your past life might make things 
 uncomfortable. Am I clear?" 
 
 "Yes, perfectly. I expect Mr. Fairthorne to leave 
 me thirty thousand dollars, and little enough. ' ' 
 
 "No, it is rather large, but may pass. It pretty 
 nearly reaches the limit." 
 
 "Indeed!" she said, and stood up. "The limit, 
 indeed! And you set a limit to what Mr. Fair- 
 thorne may do ! He will be amazed ! You, and the 
 family which has treated me with contempt. Me ! 
 I, who am not good enough for their miserable little 
 provincial, antique, stiff -backed society ! They should 
 thank me for what I do not take. You think this 
 time I am beaten. Shall you feel so when you see 
 in the papers, 'Married, on blank date, Mrs. Hunter, 
 etc., to, etc.' What will they give me not to do it?" 
 She threw up her hands and laughed outright, in 
 evident enjoyment of the situation. Archer said 
 quietly: "Admirably played, Mrs. Hunter, but I 
 think we understand one another. I am grieved that 
 there yet remains much that concerns you which I 
 cannot at present deal with, and do not want to if 
 I can help it." He wished to leave with her the 
 belief that there must be in her past that which he 
 knew or could learn. 
 
 "Let me in turn congratulate you, Dr. Archer. 
 That was fairly well done," she said, languidly, as 
 if tired of the discussion. "At any time I am at 
 your disposal for a dull account of a New England 
 school-teacher. ' ' 
 
 "Thank you," he said; "you and I, Mrs. Hunter,
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 341 
 
 are enemies. As you are a woman, what I really 
 think all I think of you must remain unsaid. 
 Certainly, Mrs. Hunter's account of herself might be 
 entertaining. I hope to find some franker biogra- 
 pher. " As he spoke she stood facing him, something 
 sinister in the wide eyes' fixity. 
 
 ' ' Poor me ! How important I am becoming ! A 
 comparative biography by several authors would be 
 novel and interesting. Add, then, the autobiog- 
 raphy. I wish you joy of the search." She was 
 aware how perilously near he had been to one who 
 knew her thoroughly, but she never had lacked cour- 
 age, and she meant at once to front this new dan- 
 ger and to learn where she stood. 
 
 Archer smiled as he played with his watch-chain. 
 A duel of words amused him. He could not resist 
 the desire to retort, sometimes an unwise desire. 
 
 ' ' That idea of a comparative biography strikes me 
 as promising." 
 
 "Thanks for the rather adulterated compliment, 
 Dr. Archer, and good afternoon. We seem to have 
 got to an end. ' ' 
 
 Archer opened the door, and saw her enter John 
 Fairthorne's carriage. He went back to his library, 
 feeling that he had not been eminently victorious. 
 What did her threat mean? Was it merely an idle 
 one? John Fairthorne was a proud man, un- 
 likely to marry in haste an unknown woman, but 
 then the power of a woman over a man is always an 
 unknown or incalculable factor in the equation of 
 life. There was. however, the mere fact of the out- 
 spoken threat as against the chance of occurrence
 
 342 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 of the thing feared, or as against the probability of 
 its being seriously entertained. If this contingent 
 event were probable she would have kept it to her- 
 self. He was wrong. Mrs. Hunter liked the show 
 of power almost as well as the reality of power. She 
 had been thinking of marriage as being still a pos- 
 sible move in her game until Fairthorne had spoken 
 so plainly. Time was all essential to her now, for 
 the codicil remained unsigned, and in two days there 
 would be the dull country life of Delaware County, 
 and more or less separation from her brother, who 
 / had lately been drinking enough to show ill effects 
 v on the pink-and-cream tints of his face. 
 
 Perplexed by the needless difficulties this man's 
 weaknesses put in her way, she again asked herself 
 why she did not abandon him. She had in no other 
 case failed to put her own interests first. Had she 
 troubled herself with self-analysis she might have 
 learned that when, as a young woman, the care of 
 the boy brother fell upon her she became the slave 
 of an instinct which was as near to that of mater- 
 nity as was possible for Lucretia Hunter. His per- 
 sonal beauty pleased her as time went on, and she 
 dreamed ambitions for him and for herself; but of 
 late years the wilful boy had become the weak and 
 wilful man, and a certain cunning often seen in the 
 feeble invited to acts of which his intelligence could 
 not predict the results.
 
 XXXVI 
 
 HE household of the Fairthornes re- 
 moved to the country with far less fric- 
 tion than usual, as Mary reluctantly 
 confessed to Madge. Kitty was here 
 and there, apparently busy, but in 
 every one 's way, as useless and persistent as a house- 
 fly in August. No one of the distracted household 
 was entirely pleased at the change, least of all its 
 master. He went because it was his habit, but such 
 changes are like too evident mile-stones to please 
 the old; they mark the passing of relentless years. 
 The ample house of his grandfather at Edgewood 
 contented Fairthorne, a man always averse to altered 
 conditions in his surroundings. He had long since 
 satisfied his personal wants by building a library 
 on the second floor, next to his bedroom, and by en- 
 larging the wide two-story veranda on which these 
 apartments opened. The number of books he took 
 with him and the quantity of valuable autographs, 
 as to which he troubled every one, usually made this 
 annual exodus a source of exasperation to all con- 
 cerned. 
 
 "She is certainly capable, Madge," said Mary. 
 "And do you know, dear, I sometimes think Uncle 
 John is afraid of her, just a little afraid?" 
 343
 
 344 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Why should he be?" said Madge, thoughtfully. 
 "Harry has terrified me with the idea that she may 
 make him marry her. You very heroic people think 
 money of no moment. "What are you laughing at? 
 When you have children of your own you will not 
 laugh about money." 
 
 "I assure you I was not thinking of Uncle John's 
 money. I was laughing at the idea of Aunt Lu- 
 cretia. Oh, don't be alarmed, dear. Dr. Archer 
 thinks it will never be." 
 
 "Oh, Dr. Archer 'thinks'?" 
 
 ' ' Yes, ' ' returned Mary, somewhat reluctantly. ' ' He 
 has had a rather singular talk with that woman." 
 
 "Indeed! What was it? Do tell me all about it. " 
 
 These two sisters were so near to one another, so 
 habitually intimate, that each at times found it hard 
 to safeguard thoughts she did not mean to reveal ; 
 a word, a phrase, a little hesitation, the least appear- 
 ance of want of the customary frankness, was enough 
 to betray her. They understood this, and preserved 
 at need a respectful appearance of lack of interest or 
 of inability to apprehend. 
 
 When Mary spoke of Archer, Madge knew that 
 her sister had said more than she meant to say. 
 When her curiosity had a little overcome her discre- 
 tion, Mary had replied that of course she would tell 
 her all about it, but that now she really must go out 
 and attend to certain requirements of summer cos- 
 tume. 
 
 "I shall stay here to-night, dear. Then we can 
 talk." 
 
 "I think I can wait so long, but I hate to starve
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 345 
 
 my curiosity." Madge did not question Mary, and, 
 although very curious, said no word of Archer. As 
 Mary prepared to leave, her sister said : 
 
 "Kitty was in town to-day. I was sure that three 
 days at Edgewood would satisfy her desires for the 
 country." 
 
 "I shall go out to Uncle John to-morrow. I do 
 hope you will not wait until June to join us." 
 
 "Ask Harry, dear." 
 
 "I wish you could come now; together, we should 
 rout that woman." She went out, distinctly recog- 
 nizing the fact that Madge had been kindly discreet. 
 For Mary to have been entirely frank with her sis- 
 ter would have been to admit an increasing intimacy 
 with Sydney Archer which she hesitated to confess 
 even to Mary Fairthorne. 
 
 The day before the Fairthornes left for the country 
 Mrs. Hunter secured Mr. Fairthorne 's signature to 
 the codicil. She doubly enjoyed her victory. Syd- 
 ney Archer had called to report once more upon 
 Luke Pilgrim's condition, and to say for him that 
 very soon he would be able to set a time for his visit 
 to Edgewood. He hoped then to arrange for the 
 permanent management of their coal property. Mrs. 
 Hunter was unprepared for this new embarrass- 
 ment, or rather for its nearness. She had hoped for 
 more time, and was aware that she could not let Pil- 
 grim come to Edgewood without some preliminary 
 arrangements. 
 
 Fairthorne said he should be glad to see the engi- 
 neer, and the sooner the better. Archer thought it 
 certain he could come in a few days; it was purely
 
 346 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 a question of health. As Archer rose, Mr. Fair- 
 thorne, pleased to have seen him, said : 
 
 "Do not go, Sydney. I miss you. I am pretty 
 lonely at times. ' ' There was that in his voice which 
 moved Archer. He sat down again, and began to 
 amuse Fairthorne with his experiences on the Kan- 
 awha. Next, they fell to discussing Pilgrim's sin- 
 gular mingling of theoretic mysticism and practical 
 common sense. The old man said shrewdly that 
 Mary Fairthorne was not unlike that, and added : 
 
 "I used to fancy there was something between 
 Mary and Pilgrim, a kind of transcendental flirta- 
 tion, I suppose, or was it Katherine? I cannot 
 remember anything nowadays. Who was it, Lu- 
 cretia ? ' ' 
 
 Lucretia said, smiling, "perhaps both," but that 
 she had not been there then, and no doubt Dr. 
 Archer would know. He made no reply, and Fair- 
 thorne said : 
 
 "You have been here very seldom of late, Archer. 
 You do not ask how I feel. Doctors are getting 
 to be too scientific. Dr. Soper comes, but he is sopo- 
 rific." He laughed applause at his well-worn joke 
 on the name and repeated the jest over and over. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter listened, a little anxious, and Archer 
 with more than a little pain. He checked him by 
 saying that Pilgrim would himself write and set 
 a day. 
 
 "Well," said Fairthorne, "tell him to come soon. 
 I am pretty feeble myself; leaves falling, falling; 
 sort of damned unpleasant personal autumn. Mrs. 
 Hunter shall nurse us both. ' '
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 347 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Hunter, "I will nurse him." 
 
 There was something in her tone that made Archer 
 turn a quick glance upon her face. It changed as 
 Dr. Soper entered with his perennial smile, and dis- 
 tributed an affluent greeting : 
 
 ' ' Ah, how do you do, Archer. I am sure you must 
 be gratified to see how well our patient is get- 
 ting on." 
 
 Fairthorne considered the stout little doctor with 
 a look in which there was both pathos and comedy. 
 
 ' ' Soper, ' ' he said, ' ' when you are ill let them come 
 to me for a diagnosis. I will tell you now in confi- 
 dence what is the matter with me. I am losing my 
 wits. ' ' 
 
 "No, sir," returned Soper, "no, sir; he will have 
 his little joke, Archer. People who are losing their 
 wits never know it. Hope I may find them when 
 you lose them." 
 
 Archer, shocked and sorry, rose. 
 
 "Kindly wait a moment," said Lucretia. A mali- 
 cious opportunity was here. Bending over Mr. Fair- 
 thorne, she said : 
 
 "Dr. Archer and Dr. Soper could act as wit- 
 nesses." She coolly took his will from a drawer, 
 opened it before him on the table, and went on: 
 "Now, sir, please." 
 
 He looked up with a face suddenly emptied of in- 
 telligence. Archer, surprised at his expression of 
 dumb, questioning puzzle, waited. This abruptness 
 of change from power to reason into bewilderment 
 was recent. Fairthorne said: 
 
 "What is it I am to do? What is it about?"
 
 348 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Lucretia said : 
 "Your will, sir." 
 "I am not making a will." 
 "Yes, the codicil, you remember." 
 He seemed to comprehend, and said : 
 "Whereabouts?" when Archer spoke: 
 "Not yet, Mr. Fairthorne. I do not mean to be 
 a witness, to be used as a witness. Good morning." 
 Fairthorne said: 
 
 ' ' Why not ? What 's the matter, Sydney ? ' ' The 
 cloud was passing. "Sorry you must go. Come in 
 again. We will have a consultation on Soper. ' ' He 
 did not insist upon Archer's being a witness. As 
 the physician passed by Mrs. Hunter, he said : 
 "Did you think I would do this thing?" 
 "I?" She laughed. "No, indeed; but who could 
 resist it?" He had a slight suspicion that he was 
 being laughed at, and replied : 
 
 "Some jests are costly. Good day." 
 She knew very well that she had made a mistake, 
 but the temptation to trap or at least to annoy 
 Archer had been too sudden and too great. 
 
 "I was a fool," she murmured. She went down- 
 stairs behind him, neither speaking. When he had 
 gone she found her brother waiting, by appointment, 
 in the parlor. In a few minutes the codicil was 
 signed, witnessed, and returned to the safe. Mrs. 
 Hunter was at ease, and now, before Pilgrim came 
 to pay that visit to Edgewood, she resolved with her 
 usual courage to seek the unavoidable peril rather 
 than to abide its coming. 
 
 The day after this, as has been stated, they moved
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 349 
 
 to the country, where Mary soon joined them. Here, 
 three days later, she wrote in her diary : 
 
 "This habit of confessing to paper is sometimes inconve- 
 nient. Once the habit is made it seems to exact more than one 
 could have anticipated. To fear to face one's honest thought 
 on paper seems silly, but it appears very definite when it looks 
 up at you and says, ' This is you.' I wonder if the habit be a 
 wise one! 
 
 "Mrs. H. has become to me an interesting and is always a 
 disagreeable problem. S. A. has written me of her having in- 
 duced Uncle John to leave her money thirty thousand dollars. 
 I do not tell Madge. Money means more to her than to 
 me, and yes, to tell the truth, I cannot talk about what S. A. 
 has told no one but me. Are all women like me ? We come 
 very near on paper. And now, of late, when he deliberately 
 makes time to see or ride with me we seem to move apart. I 
 recoil mentally, and yes, physically. I am sure to say no and 
 to be sorry, and to say no again. L. P. comes within a week. 
 I do not think that now he would interest me as he did when 
 I was younger. It was well for us both that he told me. 
 Imagine a man base enough to hide it, and then to marry and 
 for the woman to wake up to that knowledge ! I hope L. P. has 
 lived out of remembrance of it all. It was dreadful." 
 
 As she ended Kitty came in to show a new frock, 
 and then together they went out to look over the 
 flower-garden on the slope leading down to Cobb's 
 Creek. 
 
 Seeing them in the garden, Lucretia set out on 
 what she called a tour of inspection. Miss Morrow 
 she knew and governed, but nevertheless she now 
 looked with care over Kitty's disorderly writing- 
 table and read a few valueless notes. Thence she 
 moved into Mary Fairthorne's small sitting-room.
 
 360 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Her eyes lighted up as she saw for the first time 
 lying unlocked and wide open Mary's diary. On 
 the page was a small paper-knife, apparently as a 
 marker. Lucretia walked to the back window, and 
 thus enabled to make sure of overlooking the two 
 women, gave herself up to keen enjoyment as she 
 ran over this record. 
 
 "It is as good as a novel. And so L. P. was 
 an old love affair, and the man was fool enough 
 to tell. I wonder did she care? I do not make 
 it out clearly. Is she really in love with S. A. ? 
 It is droll reading. Am I what men call cold? I 
 am not in the business at all. I have no machinery 
 for grinding out any understanding of the passion 
 of love. Oh, this is immense ! I could advise the 
 said S. A. what to do. I might sell him this page. 
 That would be an autographic treasure! This de- 
 scription of me is not bad. 'A gipsy face, ivory 
 complexion, eyes too large, vulgar habit of staring.' 
 Thank you. ' Good figure and well dressed. ' Thank 
 you again, Miss Fairthorne. 'Has unpleasant hands, 
 the thumbs are too long and they are always cold 
 and damp. The brother is like a red, vulgar bar- 
 maid ; not a man, an incredible little wretch. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Hunter stood still. 
 
 "Ah!" she cried, "if I do not make you smart for 
 that, my lady, my name is not Lucretia. But it is 
 not!" she exclaimed, laughing; "and still, she shall 
 catch it. I '11 give it to her hot." Mrs. Hunter 
 was angry, and well-mannered wrath requires 
 breeding. 
 
 The book was replaced, and soon after was locked
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 351 
 
 up in haste by its owner, who was well aware of 
 Lucretia's taste for domestic inspections. 
 
 When next day, on her return from the city, the 
 servant failed to meet Miss Fairthorne at the station 
 she good-humoredly walked the two miles to her 
 home in the rain. At the stable, where she went at 
 once, the groom explained that Mrs. Hunter had 
 taken the horses for some country errand. When 
 Mary said, "But I left an order to come for me," the 
 man replied that Mr. Fairthorne had personally 
 given directions for Mrs. Hunter to have the car- 
 riage, and that Miss Katherine had the dog-cart. 
 When Mary inquired of Mrs. Hunter concerning 
 this matter, Lucretia said that it was impossible to 
 contradict Mr. Fairthorne, that he had insisted on 
 her doing certain errands and that she regretted it 
 deeply. There was enough of truth in all this to 
 make her excuse seem plausible, but Mrs. Hunter's 
 regrets were of purpose overdone, and Mary haught- 
 ily retired from an unequal contest, sure that the 
 slight had been arranged with malice which she had 
 nothing in her own nature to explain. She went 
 away vexed and puzzled, saying to herself: 
 
 "How will this sort of thing appear to a stranger, 
 and how long will it last ? Oh, if I only could ; that 
 would end it. But I cannot." 
 
 Two days later, Mrs. Hunter said to Mary : 
 
 "I have to go to the city this morning. Your 
 uncle will need you." 
 
 Mary, flushing a little at what was close to an 
 order, merely said : 
 
 ' ' Very well, I will sit with him. ' '
 
 352 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Mrs. Hunter dressed herself with unusual care, 
 but with great simplicity, and went away with Kitty. 
 At the city station, it being then about ten in the 
 morning, she parted from Kitty, making an appoint- 
 ment to meet her in the afternoon, that they might 
 return together. 
 
 Luke Pilgrim, comfortably convalescent, lay that 
 morning on a lounge in his sitting-room. The jour- 
 nals of the day were on a chair beside him. The 
 "Ledger" of the morning had just told him of the 
 rise in interest, of the scarcity of money, of the dis- 
 appearance of the president of the Republic Trust 
 Company, and of the general sense of alarm. A little 
 lower he saw an assurance that Mr. Thurston was to 
 be at home the next day. It did not interest him. 
 He had the long-trained endurance of the newspaper 
 which is a part of our education, and the usual 
 belief that its to-morrow will contradict to-day. 
 Archer had allowed him one cigar daily. He sat up, 
 very pale in his dark velveteen jacket, a large fea- 
 tured man from whose square forehead the hair was 
 beginning to retreat ; a very interesting face, with a 
 certain steadiness of feature, the look of the habitu- 
 ally thoughtful. He decided for the after-breakfast 
 cigar, for he had risen late and had for the first time 
 since his wound enjoyed the meal. As he stood up 
 there was a timid knock at the door. He cried : 
 "Come in, come in." To his surprise, a closely 
 veiled, rather tall woman entered. She shut the 
 door, and, putting a hand behind her, quietly 
 turned the key a mistake, as at a later date she re- 
 flected. Pilgrim moved forward, and said: "Par-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 353 
 
 don me, but have you not mistaken the room? " Lu- 
 cretia threw her veil aside, and ran forward, crying : 
 
 ' ' Luke, Luke, it is I ! It is Inez ! " \X 
 
 The man fell back. She dropped on her knees, 
 and seized his hand. 
 
 "Oh, these bitter years! Will you not forgive 
 me? I was so young, so foolish! And, Luke, I 
 have suffered ! Oh, won't you believe me ? ' ' 
 
 As he drew away, releasing his hand, she looked 
 up, moving a step or two on her knees. 
 
 "Pity me, Luke! I am so unhappy!" 
 
 Seeing no visible sign of emotion on the face of 
 stern judgment which looked down upon her, Lu- 
 cretia staggered to her feet and cried: "Oh, my 
 God! He will not," and fell into a chair. "My 
 God! I am punished." 
 
 Pilgrim stood still, speechless. He had never ex- 
 pected to see his wife again. Six years had passed 
 since their divorce, eight since she had left him. 
 He knew something of her life up to an uncertain 
 time; then he knew too much, and wished to know 
 no more. She had wrecked his young life, and 
 brought disaster on him after they had been long 
 years apart. There had been a time when to have 
 killed her would have seemed right. All this and 
 more went swiftly through his mind as he stood 
 without a word, while the fire of a long-buried hate 
 flashed up through the gray ashes of forgetfulness. 
 She was sobbing, as she sat in the arm-chair, her 
 face in her hands. Her parasol and gloves dropped 
 to the floor. It seemed to him hours as she sat, 
 brokenly muttering : 
 
 23
 
 354 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Luke, Luke! I am so unhappy!" 
 
 At last she sat up and lifted face and hands in 
 dumb appeal, to which her large eyes lent all but 
 tenderness. The man's strange silence troubled 
 her. Suddenly she had a revealing inspiration, 
 such as comes to the greater actresses of real life. 
 She ran forward and caught his arms as she cried : 
 
 "Do you want the truth? You shall have it. 
 What rack is so cruel as silence ? I never loved you. 
 I was poor, in want. They said you would be rich. 
 I married you yes, you did not marry me, and then 
 I got tired of everything. Your uncle came and 
 ended the dream of wealth. I went away " she 
 paused. He spoke his first word : 
 
 "Well, Inez?" 
 
 She let go her hold, and as she stood hid her face 
 in her hands and moaned with low-toned dis- 
 tinctness : 
 
 "It is horrible, but I must say it. I love you 
 now, Luke. It came to me amid shame and an- 
 guish. It has cursed me with the thought of what 
 might have been. That has been my punishment, 
 that I have learned to love you. ' ' 
 
 For one brief moment the devil of self-esteem 
 which is in all men rose up and preached belief. 
 Then he knew that she was acting, and asked himself 
 first, and then her, in a voice which was absolutely 
 calm: 
 
 "What is it that you want?" 
 
 "Want? Want? How hard you are! I want 
 what in my folly I threw away. I want what you 
 will never give."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 365 
 
 It was beginning to overtax the man, but he an- 
 swered slowly: 
 
 "I do not think I can bear much more of this. 
 You are not a woman to come here without some ob- 
 ject. I have helped you in the past. If in any 
 reasonable way I can help you now, for Heaven's 
 sake say plainly what it is, and let me have done 
 with it. You are as you were ; no one can sift your 
 lies from your truth. It would not concern me if I 
 could. What is it you want ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, I want something which you can give me." 
 
 "Well, what is it?" 
 
 "I want your silence. I am Mr. Fairthorne's 
 secretary." 
 
 "You you his secretary? I confess I was not 
 prepared for that. ' ' He was indeed amazed. ' ' You 
 the woman who Well, no matter. Tell me what 
 you desire and let us get done with it." She noted 
 the way in which his voice and manner lost what 
 little indulgent yielding had been in them. She 
 said: 
 
 "Oh, I am so unhappy, Luke. Don't say you 
 will not help me. You think I have lived an easy 
 life on your money. Indeed, indeed it is not so. 
 It was not spent on me. It went to help, to educate 
 my brother. I have worked hard. At last I have 
 found a home and peace, peace! I can even save 
 for a rainy day. And now you come and How 
 can I bear it?" 
 
 He said, quietly : 
 
 "Sit down," and as she obeyed he himself took 
 a seat. "Mrs. Hunter, or well, Inez, if you like,
 
 356 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 I know well that you did not love me, also I know 
 that you do not now love me. It is pure fiction. 
 What you fear is that I shall tell the ugly story of 
 your life. You are a woman whom I utterly distrust. 
 You have left behind you a trail of ruin. You are 
 now in the house of my friend in a place of impor- 
 tance. What little I have heard, and I have been too 
 ill to hear much, has not been pleasant. I do not 
 know what to do. I do not like to be in the house 
 with you, and yet I do not mean that you shall shut 
 me out of that house. If Mr. Fairthorne is well 
 enough I have to make arrangements with him which 
 will require hours, even days, of consultation. I do 
 not mean to be shut out of this because it is unpleas- 
 ant for you or awkward for me. What else I may 
 or may not do I decline to state. All of this is too 
 unexpected for decision ; I must give myself time to 
 reflect." 
 
 "And is that all!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you do not believe me, Luke? Do you 
 think I invented my love? Ah, if only I were free 
 from that bondage. Do not say that you do not 
 believe I love you." 
 
 "I do not." 
 
 "I am at your mercy. Be generous! You sim- 
 ply cannot say, 'This woman was my wife, take 
 care of her; she is bad, dangerous.' And it was 
 years ago. Do you not think a woman may 
 change?" 
 
 "You have not changed. I make no terms. We 
 will meet as strangers. You will be my old friend's
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 357 
 
 secretary, and beyond this I do not pledge myself. 
 Pardon me, you have forgotten your parasol. ' ' She 
 had risen. He picked up her gloves and handed 
 them to her. 
 
 "And this must content me?" 
 
 He made no reply, but, preceding her to the door, 
 perceived as he tried the handle that it was locked. 
 He turned the key. 
 
 "You were deliberate," he said, bitterly. 
 
 "Good-bye, Luke," she said, with her head bent, 
 a slight break, a certain humility in her lowered 
 voice. Then, for the first time he was angry. He 
 said: 
 
 "That is not my name for you. We are further 
 apart than are other people. The law has built a 
 wall between us. I am Mr. Pilgrim, and you, I 
 suppose, are Mrs. Hunter, or God knows what 
 name. ' ' 
 
 "I will remember," she said, faintly. "Luke 
 pardon me, Mr. Oh, how can I? I will try to 
 remember." As she spoke she stood as if for sup- 
 port leaning against the door he had unlocked. His 
 hand was on the knob ; he was faint in body and tor- 
 tured in mind, but resolute to end it. 
 
 She repeated her last word "remember, remem- 
 ber" and reeled against him. This physical appeal, 
 as of one about to fall, only angered him, but as by 
 instinct he caught her on his arm. She looked up 
 at him. 
 
 ""Oh, kiss me, Luke once, only once for good- 
 bye." 
 
 The man started as if stung. He pushed her
 
 368 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 from him. "You devil!" he cried. "Do you want 
 me to kill you? By Heaven, for this second time 
 you have been near to die" 
 
 / She fell back, and knew, as he threw open the 
 door, that he had spoken truth. He was no longer a 
 man to be played upon or tempted. 
 
 "Will you go?" he said. 
 
 Again she looked and saw that in his face which 
 she never quite forgot. She turned in haste and, 
 passing him, walked down the corridor with bent 
 head. Once she staggered, as if weak. He watched 
 her and closed the door as she turned a corner and 
 was lost to view. 
 
 Once out of his sight, Lucretia drew herself up. 
 
 y"I think that will do," she said; "he will not 
 tell. I know him. It would seem mean, a revenge. 
 I am sure he will not speak." 
 
 Pilgrim was not yet strong enough for so severe 
 a test of strength as this had been. He threw him- 
 self down exhausted, and, wiping the sweat from 
 his forehead, said to himself: 
 
 "That was terrible. What are ghosts to that? 
 Oh, God help me, I was near to murder. Oh, that 
 white neck ! I wanted to hurt it, to silence the cursed 
 tongue. If if ever a man had done me as great a 
 wrong, surely he had died for it. ' ' 
 
 For a long while he lay outwardly at rest, while 
 the storm within subsided. Then he began to con- 
 sider the practical features of the situation. He 
 knew that he must not betray Mrs. Hunter's identity 
 if it were possible to avoid it. He could not now 
 refuse to make his visit, but certainly he must wait 
 until he felt better.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 359 
 
 "And by George!" he added, aloud, "I will make 
 it short." 
 
 Archer, who more than suspected Pilgrim of hav- 
 ing been in the past strongly attracted by Miss Fair- 
 thorne, had been, for a double reason, indisposed to 
 talk of that lady to his friend. Thus it came about 
 that at the time of this painful interview Pilgrim 
 knew little of Mrs. Hunter's true relation to either 
 John Fairthorne or his nieces. Tom Masters had 
 spoken of the handsome secretary whom he had 
 found agreeable, and Margaret Swanwick, during 
 Pilgrim's brief former stay, had spoken and written 
 far otherwise, but as he did not then dream of who 
 Mrs. Hunter really was he had taken little interest 
 in what he had thus learned. 
 
 He thought, as he lay still, of the fatal influence 
 this woman had exerted upon a life which was assur- 
 edly both brilliant and successful, and as certainly 
 most unhappy. Then, being the firm master of his 
 own mental and moral processes, he resolutely put it 
 aside, saying to himself : 
 
 "I made no promises. What wonder that as a 
 young fellow I was the fool of this woman? What 
 an actress ! ' ' After this he took up a report on the 
 lighting of mines, and forgot for a time the scene 
 which had so gravely tested his returning strength.
 
 XXXVII 
 
 IIME had run on and while Third Street 
 and Wall Street were disturbed and 
 anxious, the house of Roger Grace & 
 Company had also its especial trouble. 
 The doubtful condition of more than 
 one institution was discussed, and the long absence 
 of Grace became the subject of comment when it 
 grew clear that radical measures must be taken to 
 sustain this or that crippled bank or trust com- 
 pany. Usually, after seven or eight days of absence 
 Grace had found his letters upon his arrival at Bed- 
 ford, but now over twelve days had gone by, and 
 where he was no one knew. Swanwick began to be 
 uneasy about his friend, and said to his wife one 
 morning after breakfast: 
 
 "This absence just now is very serious. No one 
 has the courage and the clear head of Grace. I 
 learn from his partners that thrice before, but not 
 last year, he has declared he was gouty and gone 
 away abruptly, telling his clerks not to bother him 
 with letters, to send them all to Bedford ; he would 
 be there in a week or more. This year he went away 
 in haste, and to-day I have a letter from Blount 
 from the hotel at Bedford Springs. Here it is." 
 "Read it," she said.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 361 
 
 " DEAR SIR There are a dozen telegrams here and no end 
 of letters for Mr. Grace. His partners wired the hotel keeper 
 about him. He told me to reply that he has not arrived and 
 that we have not heard from him. He is well known here. His 
 partners seem uneasy. Is it the state of the stock market, or 
 is there possibly any cause to be personally anxious about 
 him? You know, sir, or perhaps do not know, what I owe 
 him. Before he went away he had become unusually grave, 
 and seemed to me to want to avoid every one and to be alone. 
 Perhaps Mrs. Swanwick would write and let me know if he is 
 heard from or, can I do anything? 
 
 "Yours truly, 
 
 "MARTIN BLOTJNT." 
 
 "That is a good-hearted fellow," said Harry; 
 "and I, too, am anxious. I do not see what else can 
 be done. His partners seem to me to think this ab- 
 sence mysterious. Certainly it is just now rather 
 unfortunate. ' ' 
 
 "Do you often see his partners?" asked Madge. 
 
 "Yes, daily. They are really worried. It is like 
 a general officer missing in a big engagement. Of 
 course, they must be presumed to know why Mr. 
 Grace is absent." 
 
 "They can make it seem too mysterious, Harry, 
 and that is just what it is; but they are unwise to 
 show their anxiety." 
 
 "Yes, I think they show it too much." 
 
 "They should not," said Madge; "they should 
 seem confidently to accept it as usual. ' ' 
 
 "I will say a word or two of warning as I go 
 down street." He did not even suspect that he was 
 being advised to do this very thing. His mind was 
 a capable instrument, but slow; that of his wife
 
 362 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 rapid and very decisive. She said, as he was leav- 
 ing her : 
 
 "Wait a moment; do not forget to see Mr. Pil- 
 grim to-day. I sent him some trifles this morning. 
 See if he is well fed, our hotels are so bad. ' ' 
 
 "Anything else?" he asked, smiling. Margaret 
 said: "Yes. Has any one asked about Mr. Grace at 
 Miss Markham's? I shrewdly suspect the little 
 white violet may know." 
 
 "White violet!" he queried. 
 
 "Yes, dear. Perhaps you may recall that a cen- 
 tury ago, when we were lovers, we found white vio- 
 lets on the upper Wissahickon Creek." 
 
 "Thank you, madam. I remember, and am still 
 your lover. Is it Clementina that is the white vio- 
 let? And who was so sentimental as to call her 
 that?" 
 
 "Roger Grace." 
 
 ' ' Indeed ! That is funny. ' ' 
 
 "I do not think so." 
 
 "Then where is your sense of fun, Madge? Is it 
 a mildly conducted flirtation? Imagine it! Grace 
 as the passionate lover, and Clementina primly re- 
 sponsive ! She is still pretty, but imagine it ! " He 
 laughed merrily. 
 
 "My dear Harry, when we were young lovers some 
 one was laughing at us. There is an element of the 
 ridiculous in all love affairs for those who are still 
 outside of the net. What if I were to say to you 
 that the white violet in her pale silks is a self-sub- 
 dued, passionate little woman?"
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 363 
 
 "I should say that that was one of Mary's charac- 
 terizations and utterly nonsensical." 
 
 "It is hers. I should never have put it just that 
 way, but Mary has curious insight." 
 
 * ' I did not answer you, Madge. Mr. West, Grace 's 
 partner, did go to Miss Markham's to ask if Grace 
 had left any direction with them. They said no. Is 
 that all? I must go." 
 
 Madge was silent a moment. ' ' Has any one asked 
 Mr. Knell wood, Harry?" 
 
 "Why, how on earth should Knell wood know?" 
 He was getting impatient. 
 
 "Perhaps not. Oh, by the way, wire Mary to 
 come in to dinner on Sunday." 
 
 "She won't. She plays the organ at St. David's. 
 Mary's duties are always in the way of her 
 pleasures. ' ' 
 
 "Try for Saturday." 
 
 "Very good. Anything else ? No," and he went 
 away to say good day to the children and thence to 
 his office. 
 
 As soon as he had gone Mrs. Swanwick sat down 
 and wrote, asking Mr. Knellwood to drop in at five. 
 Knellwood was glad to receive her note. He, too, 
 was deeply distressed. Perhaps because he was not 
 a man of quick mind or large intellect the vital 
 alertness of Margaret Swan wick's nature and her 
 intellectual sympathy, even where her beliefs failed, 
 pleased the man who, whatever else he lacked, was 
 humbly appreciative. More positive than her sister, 
 she had less charity for opinions which both women
 
 364 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 felt to be extreme and hurtful to their church. But, 
 being a kindly woman, she never yielded to her con- 
 stant temptation to have a bout at logical fence with 
 the rector. The man she liked with a reserve of 
 varying doubt ; the priest was unexplained to her by 
 any reasoning of which she was mistress. 
 
 When her note came the clergyman was distract- 
 edly turning over the pages of the "Guardian." 
 Roger Grace, his temptation, and his long absence, 
 were troubling deeply the tender heart of the rector. 
 Archer had forbidden work, and had laid remorseless 
 orders upon him as to diet and times of rest. In this 
 enforced leisure the image of Kitty rose insistent, 
 "as in a dream adorned," because these things no 
 man can altogether set aside; but his beliefs were 
 honest, and while Kitty was absent the more terrible 
 power of the mere woman was in abeyance. Like 
 Roger Grace, he feared and distrusted himself, and 
 prayed with a humble heart to be delivered from 
 temptation. It may seem strange, but a nobler 
 woman would have tempted him less. He was glad 
 now of Kitty's absence in the country, and thought 
 with joy of the summer city, empty of his richer 
 friends, and of a return to his poor and his clerical 
 work. Meanwhile, he was a little bored. 
 
 Mrs. Swanwick was alone when he was shown up 
 to the library. She meant to admit no one else save 
 this invited guest, and was visibly pleased to see 
 him. He said, as he picked out with care a sturdy 
 chair for his big frame: 
 
 "I am so glad you thought to ask me. I am 
 hedged about by Sydney Archer with things I must
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 365 
 
 or must not do. Society is not forbidden, and, you 
 know, you have what Miss Fairthorne calls 'the gift 
 of welcome.' ' 
 
 ' ' That is very nice. I like that. Sit down. Jack 
 wished to be told when you came, but he is out. Is 
 there any news of Mr. Grace ? Keally, he is a bit in- 
 considerate to be away when everybody wants him. ' ' 
 
 Knellwood said : 
 
 "No, I have not heard, but I could not expect to 
 hear. He likes to run off and get clear of work. 
 Cannot you understand that?" He was needlessly 
 explanatory. 
 
 "Yes, but not now." She knew as well as any 
 one the treacherous state of the money market and 
 the probability of the collapse of the weaker banks. 
 She chose to quote her husband as her authority, and 
 went on to state what Harry thought of the peril, 
 how sorely Grace was wanted, what doubt and sus- 
 picion his absence created, the fact that he had 
 meant to assist in sustaining certain institutions, and 
 finally how unlike him it was to abandon his post at 
 such a time. 
 
 The statement was made so clearly that it left 
 Knellwood more and more uncomfortable about his 
 friend. He felt that this acute little woman knew 
 or suspected that there was something not quite right 
 or usual in this unexplained neglect of duty. He 
 began to feel it as an appeal to himself, and to fancy 
 it rested on her belief that he knew something which 
 she did not. 
 
 "It is a sad pity," he said; "but I suppose he 
 will turn up soon or late."
 
 366 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Yes or late. That is the trouble. If any one 
 knew where to find him it would be a great relief." 
 
 "I do not know. May I have a glass of water?" 
 She rang and, as she sat down, said: 
 
 "Mr. Knellwood, we care very, very much for 
 Roger Grace, and so do you. He is a noble-minded, 
 generous man. Why he hides just now we do not 
 guess, but it is very serious. You can have no idea 
 how he is wanted. ' ' 
 
 Knellwood was disturbed both by her persistency 
 and also by the fact that for others and for his own 
 sake Grace should be at home. 
 
 "Mrs. Swan wick, I cannot help you. All I can 
 say is that young Blount writes me that he must 
 expect soon to be at Bedford, because a huge mail 
 awaits him there. He mentioned also that year be- 
 fore last, as the landlord says, Mr. Grace came from 
 Carlisle to Bedford." 
 
 She had heard enough, and turned the talk aside 
 on matters of less personal import. As soon as Mr. 
 Knellwood had gone she sent a note to what Phila- 
 delphians call the "Old Club." Her husband usu- 
 ally stopped there for an hour on his homeward 
 way. He read it, said, "I must go, Masters," laid 
 down his cue, and hastened home. Madge said at 
 once: 
 
 "Harry, can you go to Carlisle? I think Mr. 
 Grace may be there. But there is something very 
 wrong and we must be careful. I am sure Mr. 
 Knellwood knows, ' ' and she related what had passed 
 and what Blount had said. 
 
 Harry replied that he could not go, at least not
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 367 
 
 for two days. "It seems to me, Madge, that you 
 that we are a little absurd. It is none of our busi- 
 ness. How persistent you are! Grace is a well- 
 known man. He cannot be ill; if he wants to stay 
 away no one can prevent it, and he knew better than 
 we why he should not have gone just at this time." 
 
 "It is just that which makes it grave." 
 
 "But Carlisle why, of all places, Carlisle?" 
 
 "Well, of course my opinion is of no value, but if 
 I were West or you I should at least wire Mr. Blount 
 to go to Carlisle and inquire. Make him see the 
 need for care and of course use no names in your 
 telegram. ' ' 
 
 "My dear Madge, I dislike this way of thinking 
 for other people." He did not like to hint to his 
 wife the suspicion in his male mind as to there being 
 a woman in the case. He had no least reason to 
 think so, except that no other theory seemed tenable. 
 
 His wife replied to his general statement by 
 saying : 
 
 "Yes, you are right; but I am so sure there can 
 be nothing to be ashamed of in his absence that I am 
 troubled. Do wire Martin Blount." 
 
 He reluctantly yielded. "I suppose it can do no 
 harm. Give me a blank. Will this do? 
 
 " 'MARTIN BLOUNT, 
 
 "'Hotel Stanton, Bedford: 
 
 " ' Go to Carlisle. Find owner of letters to G. Be prudent. 
 Wire me, but use no name. Very private. 
 
 " 'H. SWANWICK.'" 
 
 "That is right, Harry. I can't but feel with you 
 that all this is full of risk. I can't explain it, but
 
 368 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 one must do something and those partners seem 
 rather at the end of their resources." 
 
 "That is true enough, Madge." 
 
 It had never occurred to Knellwood that the letter 
 from Blount and his mention of Carlisle could be of 
 any consequence. Much as he longed for his friend 's 
 return and great as was his anxiety, he knew as no 
 one else did the cause of this absence, and had meant 
 jealously to guard that knowledge. 
 
 When, however, Swanwick, after his talk with 
 Madge, mentioned Carlisle and what Blount had said 
 to West the latter replied that it was quite vain to do 
 anything further, and would only annoy Mr. Grace. 
 Later in the day, however, he had to make up his 
 mind to sign for Grace two important papers which 
 closed a difficult financial affair. He hesitated to 
 act; the amounts involved were large. Feeling that 
 Grace ought first to see the papers, he had sent 
 them to Bedford, assured that as usual the banker 
 would, after a week, find them at the springs. But 
 now time had run on ; his accustomed stay had been 
 much exceeded. West hesitated until the safes were 
 locked and most of the clerks gone. Then he looked 
 to see who could best be spared, and called to Craig, 
 who went back with him into the private office. 
 
 "Mr. Craig," he said, "you have been doing better 
 since Mr. Grace last talked to you. I want you to 
 take this letter to the landlord of the Bedford 
 Springs Hotel. If Mr. Grace has not arrived there 
 he will give you two large sealed packages addressed 
 to him. Ask when he is expected. Return at once. 
 Keep an account of your expenses. Take the first
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 369 
 
 train, and lose no time. There is a formal order to 
 the landlord. " 
 
 Craig, well pleased to be thus used, promised due 
 despatch, and went away in haste that afternoon. 
 It was a mere accident which caused him to be thus 
 chosen. He had spilled ink on his clothes, and, lin- 
 gering late to rid himself of the stains, chanced to be 
 the only messenger at once available for the pur- 
 poses of an indecisive man. 
 
 Delighted to get a holiday, he left early in 
 the afternoon, and reached Bedford Springs next 
 morning. 
 
 Blount had had no difficulty in being set free for a 
 time, as he was very faithful and the fuller season 
 had not begun as yet. When he had explained to the 
 landlord that he was going to see Mr. Grace the 
 former asked him if he was sure to find him. Blount, 
 who was on his guard, said : 
 
 "Why, of course." Why else should he go ? The 
 landlord, with the indifference of the American, 
 suggested that he take with him Mr. Grace's letters 
 and telegrams, and thus freighted, Blount went 
 away, passing out of the station as Craig's train 
 entered it. 
 
 Full of his own importance, Craig asked for news 
 of Mr. Grace. Failing this, he delivered his letter and 
 desired to receive the documents described in it. He 
 heard, to his amazement, that these and all the other 
 letters had been carried off by the landlord 's request 
 in order that they might the sooner find Mr. Grace 
 at Carlisle. Craig was indignant on a large scale 
 for the firm of Grace & Co. It did not seem to trou- 
 
 24
 
 370 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 ble the landlord, but when he said that Blount had 
 been charged with this errand Craig began to have 
 a vague notion that it might be worth while, and 
 certainly excusable to follow him. But what could 
 make a man like Grace remain in a little town like 
 Carlisle? Perhaps of all in the banker's employ 
 this red-cheeked little scamp was the only one who 
 surmised anything wrong in the fact of Roger 
 Grace's prolonged absence at a critical time. Now 
 / he concluded, with a chuckle, that there was very 
 likely a woman in the business. This was enough to 
 send Craig off by the next train to the pleasant, old- 
 fashioned town which the Presbyterians built in the 
 hills, and where Benjamin Rush helped to found a 
 college. 
 
 In the afternoon the two men in turn inspected 
 the registers of the three hotels. Craig sought lodg- 
 ings at one of these inns, and abandoning the search 
 found some one to take a hand at pool, and spent an 
 agreeable and profitable evening. After nine o'clock 
 he lighted a cigar and strolled out to see the town 
 and to find Blount, and to secure from him the 
 papers West had desired him to bring back. 
 
 Meanwhile, the other young man had found for 
 himself a room in one of the more modest of the inns, 
 where he talked a little with the landlord and became 
 sure, as he had done elsewhere, that the great banker 
 was unknown to all of them. Just before bedtime, 
 being of that temper which is hard to satisfy, he 
 turned back over the register some two weeks and 
 began to inspect the names. He, too, had been made 
 to feel by Swan wick's telegram that there was some-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 371 
 
 thing to be known about this good and kindly man 
 which was not merely that, in pure freak or because 
 of gout, he had so hidden himself that no one could 
 find him. Thus musing, he read over the names, 
 and came on that of James Rogers. No date of de- 
 parture was recorded. He stood, disquieted. 
 
 Grace did not write what is known as a business 
 hand. When Fairthorne saw his signature he said 
 of it critically, as an expert : 
 
 ' ' He writes a large, round, patient script, and loses 
 no time on flourishes." Martin had seen on many 
 kind, personal checks that honest, clear, round hand. 
 The "Rogers" was penned exactly as Grace usually 
 wrote Roger. Blount stood still in wonder, almost 
 fearful to go on into something which his bene- 
 factor clearly meant to hide. 
 
 He went out and sat down with the landlord on 
 the porch, declared it was a fine night, and, after 
 the fashion of his host, set his feet on the rail. He 
 talked agriculture, crops, and cheese-making, and at 
 length said, as if it had just turned up in his mind : 
 
 "I was looking over your books. There 's one 
 man I 'd like to see, name of Rogers Jim Rogers. 
 I see he has n't gone yet; old friend of my folks." 
 
 "I think I sort of remember him," said the land- 
 lord; "sandy-haired man; travels in dairy fixin's. 
 He 's been gone a week. Ain't his goin' set down? 
 Well, like enough." 
 
 Then Blount thought he would go to bed. At the 
 door he turned, and observed that his host was look- 
 ing after him. At this moment he heard : 
 
 ' ' Halloa, Blount ! ' ' and, to his surprise, was
 
 372 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 greeted by Lionel Craig. That young man, desiring 
 later company, had sought Martin in the only inns 
 of the town and had thus naturally come upon him. 
 
 "What brings you here?" said Blount, not over- 
 pleased. 
 
 "Oh, I 'm sent up by the firm to find old Grace." 
 
 "Hush, "said Martin. 
 
 "Guess you are after him, too. Any luck? He's 
 wanted, I tell you. ' ' 
 
 "Look here," said Martin, "don't talk, you 're 
 a little drunk." Did this man know anything? He 
 would learn. "Come up to my room. Lord, man, 
 don't talk here." 
 
 "Got a cigar, Blount?" 
 
 "No. Come with me. I '11 get you one." 
 
 "I '11 come; want to talk. I 'm not drunk not 
 bad, anyway." 
 
 They went up a rickety stair to the second story, 
 and passed along the hallway, which was dimly 
 lighted by a suspended lamp. 
 
 "My room is No. 27," said Blount. They went 
 on, looking at the numbers. Suddenly a door opened, 
 and a man in a dressing-gown staggered out, fell 
 against Lionel, and then lurched heavily on to a 
 settee. 
 
 ' ' By George ! ' ' cried Craig. "It's old Grace, and 
 he 's drunk." 
 
 Then Martin understood. 
 
 "Hush!" he said. "Help me if you can." 
 
 "OLord, what a joke!" 
 
 "If you say a word more I will kill you," cried 
 Blount. ' ' Stand aside if you can 't help me. ' '
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 373 
 
 Craig kept silence, while Martin said : 
 
 "Mr. Grace, it is I, Blount. Try to get up." 
 Grace cast the unmeaning look of the deadened mind 
 upon him, but, seeming to understand, stood up, and 
 was helped back to his bed, where he lay breathing 
 heavily and fell asleep. 
 
 Martin's first thought was of deepest grief. His 
 next was of the need to keep for Grace this wretched 
 secret. Lionel had followed him into the room. He, 
 too, was thinking. A candle on the bureau dropped 
 grease, and dimly lighted the disorder of the cham- 
 ber. Martin spoke : 
 
 "Look here, Craig, you and I alone know about 
 this. We can keep it so that no one else will ever 
 know it. I want you to promise." 
 
 "Oh, I '11 keep it, sure enough," said Craig, 
 lightly. "There will be you, and the old man, and 
 me. We '11 keep it, but he won't boss me any more. 
 Oh, I 'm safe, you bet on that. ' ' 
 
 Martin was sure he was not, but what more could 
 he do ? As he spoke he had been seated by the bed, 
 a finger on Grace's bounding pulse. He rose, and, 
 facing Craig, said: 
 
 "If you are sober enough to understand, do you 
 listen to me. If ever you tell of this, as I live, I will 
 thrash you so that you will never get over it. If you 
 tell it you will ruin yourself, and I will spoil what 
 there is left of you. You lied to me, of course you 
 lied. You can't help it. This time it is awfully 
 important. ' ' 
 
 Craig said feebly: 
 
 "I did n't lie. Can't you believe a man?"
 
 374 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Well, perhaps I was hasty," returned Blount; 
 "but you know this has got to be a secret. I can't 
 explain it in a man like Mr. Grace, but I know this, 
 that for it to get about and get known would almost 
 kill him. If I was rough with you it was because of 
 the way you took it, just as if it was an e very-day 
 affair." 
 
 "That 's all right," said Craig; "when a gentle- 
 man apologizes that ends it, of course." 
 
 "Some day," thought Blount, "I will lick this 
 little beast. ' ' He said earnestly : ' ' Then it is clearly 
 agreed between us that what we have learned by ac- 
 cident no other man is to know?" 
 
 "Yes, that 's all right; but what shall we do 
 now?" That question had from the first been next 
 to the need of concealment in Martin's mind. 
 
 "I think you ought to go to Philadelphia at once. 
 You might say that Mr. Grace had been taken sick 
 here and would be at home in twenty-four hours. 
 You will get credit for tracing him." 
 
 "But they '11 ask such a lot of questions." Craig 
 evidently distrusted his own power to stand cross- 
 questioning. "Why, that man West, he 's like a 
 terrier with a rat ; he just shakes the life out of you. 
 He 'd know right away." Had Lionel been quite 
 sober he would have been confident of his power to 
 hide facts. 
 
 "Perhaps you are right," said Blount. He hated 
 the idea of sending this unmanly weakling to tell a 
 string of lies. But what to do? Craig settled the 
 matter. 
 
 "Suppose I go back, and say I went to Bedford
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 375 
 
 and the old man was n't there. I won't get any 
 credit out of the business." 
 
 Blount ignored the regret. 
 
 ' ' That will do, ' ' he said. " I will stay here. ' ' 
 
 "Well, I '11 go; but I was to bring two packages 
 back with me if Mr. Grace was not at Bedford. 
 They are large and sealed, not like letters." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Blount. ' ' Here they are. You need 
 not say I gave them to you. ' ' 
 
 "I guess not. But suppose I was just to stay and 
 help you?" The uncertainty of an undecided na- 
 ture, increased by slight intoxication, came upon 
 him as he reflected upon the obligation which his aid 
 would impose on Grace. Here was a fine chance. 
 
 "A good dose of spirits of hartshorn helps 'em," 
 he added. "We '11 give him that. I '11 go and get 
 it right away." 
 
 Blount replied : 
 
 "Craig, you go now, at once, out of this room. 
 Get to town as quickly as you can. Mr. Grace 
 must never know you were here. He will not re- 
 member. Now go, and don't forget Bedford." 
 He took the reluctant clerk by the arm and to the 
 head of the stair, Craig protesting but yielding to 
 the superior will. Here he halted, dully obstinate. 
 
 ' ' And so you 're to get all the credit ? " he said. 
 
 ' ' Credit ! You little animal ! If you were ever 
 scared you ought to be now. If you do not go at 
 once and do as we agreed, and if ever you tell it 
 will be the worst day of your mean little life. 
 That 's all of it. Off with you now, and keep a close 
 tongue."
 
 376 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 This time the savage emphasis of the grip on his 
 arm and the anger of the tones frightened Craig. 
 He went as he was bidden, without further words, 
 but humiliated and revengeful, feeling that he was 
 being set aside and cheated out of an opportunity to 
 better himself. He left Carlisle at early morning, 
 with a head heavy and aching. No one questioned 
 his statement, and for a day or two not even to his 
 sister did he tell the story. It was a valuable pos- 
 session. How should he use it?
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 sure that Craig had gone, Martin 
 closed the door, lit a second candle, and 
 sat at the bedside of the friend who 
 had so unaccountably fallen. It would 
 have been hard for his most familiar 
 acquaintance to have recognized Roger Grace in the 
 uneasy sleeper over whom Blount kept a watch al- 
 most as uneasy. Life had dealt harshly with Mar- 
 tin, but his sharp New England training, his own 
 sobriety, and all his ideals of life made the banker's 
 strange downfall a personal affliction to this debtor 
 of his kindness. What to many men in the world of 
 ease would have seemed a trifle to be heard and for- 
 gotten assumed for Blount a sad and very grave im- 
 portance. Tears were rolling down his cheeks as he 
 sat and thought of the man's generous goodness, of 
 the little ladies who honored him, of what Mrs. 
 Swanwick would think. The door opened and the 
 landlord entered. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" 
 Blount related what had happened, not speaking 
 of Craig, and said how queer it was he himself should 
 have been in the entry just at that moment, and that, 
 as he had said, Mr. Rogers was an old friend, and 
 why had the landlord deceived him ? 
 377
 
 378 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 The landlord was somewhat embarrassed, but an- 
 swered at last : 
 
 "Well, he 's an old customer, and when he gets 
 this way he gives me his money and it goes on a week 
 or two. He likes it kept quiet. Then I help him 
 to taper off. You just leave him to me; he ought 
 to have a good nip when he wakes up. I '11 leave it 
 here. Are you minded to stay ? He does n 't care to 
 have anybody know. Me and my man look after 
 him." 
 
 Blount was not to be moved, and said he was a 
 
 v kind of doctor, and he would see to the liquor. The 
 
 host, rather uneasy, but glad of a relief, for Grace 
 
 had been harder to manage than on former occasions, 
 
 went away. 
 
 The night passed, and the watcher saw the gray 
 light of dawn. Suddenly Grace sat up, and made 
 evident effort to recover his wandering faculties. 
 
 "I want a drink, Ulrich." Blount brought him 
 iced water. 
 
 "No, drink this." He did not recognize Blount, 
 "Mr. Grace, you cannot have any liquor." Eager 
 cravings stirred the dull mind. 
 
 "Give it to me. I want it." 
 
 Martin said: 
 
 "No, not a drop." He crossed the room, opened 
 the closed shutters, came back, and wiped the man's 
 face with iced water. It revived him, for liquor had 
 been allowed him in lessening quantities for several 
 days. 
 
 " My God ! " he said, " it is Martin Blount ! What 
 brought you here ? ' '
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 379 
 
 "A good chance," said Blount. "Now take this 
 cold water and go to sleep again. Don't talk, not 
 yet." 
 
 Grace fell back and slept once more. At seven he 
 sat up, with his head reasonably clear. He prayed 
 for more drink, threatened, and got up to look for 
 what he failed to find. The bottle was gone. Blount 
 locked the door, and was not to be moved, until 
 Grace gave up, and submitted to the will of his 
 attendant. 
 
 By nine o'clock he had been made to bathe and 
 dress and to take his breakfast. He was silent, 
 obeyed like a child, and now and then cast mournful 
 looks of pleading or humiliation on Martin. The 
 lines of enfeebling ravage, the heavy, swollen lids, 
 the slackened look of lost energy told their wretched 
 story; but the brain was recovering, the immense 
 vitality of the man was seizing again the fallen reins 
 V^ of self-control. He uttered a sentence from time to 
 time, brief, disjointed, and then was long speechless. 
 At last, seated on a creaking lounge at the open win- 
 dow', he said, with a faint smile: "May I have a 
 cigar, Martin? Look in my case on the table." 
 
 "Certainly, sir." 
 
 "It tastes good. You must not let me drink any 
 more. By evening I shall not need it, not for a year. 
 I must get away to Bedford at once. How long am 
 I here?" 
 
 "About thirteen days." 
 
 "That is terrible! Two weeks! That is longer 
 than usual." 
 
 "Than usual?" asked Blount, surprised.
 
 380 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Yes. This comes once in three or four years, 
 and then I am lost, damned, gone!" 
 
 Blount looked the amazement he felt. Nothing in 
 his own nature or experience explained this inexor- 
 able appetite. Archer could have told him that it 
 was a form of the drink craving which, though rare, 
 is in a very few an almost uncontrollable form of 
 alcoholic temptation. 
 
 "Please, sir, not to talk of it now. I have with me 
 all your letters and telegrams. You may like to see 
 them. If you are at all able I think you must go to 
 the city. We will drive about to-day, and to-mor- 
 row " 
 
 "Let me see a paper yesterday's." He was at 
 once anxious. Martin came back with New York 
 and Philadelphia journals. Grace turned in haste 
 to the stock-list, tore open letters and telegrams. 
 No alterative could have been so potent, no drug so 
 tone-giving. He stood up and said: "We must go 
 to the city at once, to-day. Get me a time-table." 
 
 ' ' Certainly, ' ' said Martin ; ' ' but think a little. 
 You cannot be fit, or be made fit, for instant work. 
 And it is too late now. Let us get on horseback this 
 morning, and walk about in the afternoon. We can 
 get to Harrisburg to-night, and home with ease in 
 the after part of the day, to-morrow. ' ' 
 
 Grace refused, until he found that to reach the 
 city that night was impossible. "Very well, have 
 your way. Please to wire Mr. West and Archer in 
 my name to meet me at the office at 6 P.M. to-morrow. 
 Wire to these three bank presidents to be there. 
 Stop ! I must write the names. You will leave me
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 381 
 
 at this station to-morrow. I have been ill add that. 
 You had best go back to Bedford. ' ' 
 
 Blount was amazed at this swift revival of capa- 
 city. He hesitated, as he said : 
 
 "Pardon me, sir, but are you safe?" 
 
 "Yes, I am safe. No wonder you ask." 
 
 The ride and the walk were taken, and at evening, 
 when James Rogers settled his account with a liberal 
 hand, the neat, clean-shaven gentleman with whom 
 Blount walked to the station was a metamorphosed 
 being. As they rode or walked during the day 
 Blount answered his questions as to how he had 
 chanced upon him. Of Craig he said not a word. 
 He meant at some time to do so. He knew how it 
 would disturb Grace, whose sensitiveness about this 
 masterful appetite had become painfully apparent in 
 the repeated cautions he expressed to the man who 
 needed none. He would wait and see. 
 
 The more he saw of Grace the more wise did it 
 seem to let the matter wait. The banker should 
 go back without this added trouble. He was of 
 opinion that soon or late Craig would betray his 
 trust, but meanwhile it was well not to be too sure of 
 this, and if Craig could be kept in order Grace 
 would be saved a serious addition to the annoyances 
 likely to arise out of a sad business. 
 
 That evening, when Grace parted from Blount, he 
 said: 
 
 "I shall sleep at Harrisburg, and be at home to- 
 morrow in time for my engagements. I think that 
 now you may see your way to accepting my offer 
 about my books."
 
 382 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Martin said he would think about it. With Craig 
 in his mind there seemed fair reason why this time 
 he might for a double cause say yes. 
 
 Grace said : ' ' Write to me, and come soon. I owe 
 you a debt I can never pay, and. Martin, I have a 
 long memory." Blount looked up at him. ''The 
 debt was paid long ago." They shook hands with- 
 out other words, and the young man stood with a 
 grave, set face, and saw the train pull out of the 
 station and disappear through a gap in the hills. A 
 little later he was on his way back to Bedford, re- 
 flecting on Grace's renewed offer and on the difficult 
 problem of whether Craig would keep quiet. He 
 settled the first question with ease, and was not long 
 in deciding what to do. He wrote Archer that he 
 had a good reason for not staying where he was 
 could he not get some work in town? Archer was 
 puzzled. It was unlike Blount. He wrote in reply 
 that he might help him in his laboratory, but that 
 he was not able to pay an assistant. He spoke of it 
 to Grace, who said : 
 
 "Let him come to me and arrange my books, as I 
 once asked him to do. This would leave him at least 
 the half of the day free." 
 
 Very joyfully Blount gave up his place. What he 
 had declined before he felt that he could now will- 
 ingly accept, since it would enable him to keep an 
 eye on Craig and, at need, to consult Archer; but 
 that must be a last resort, for this very practical 
 young man had carefully listened to Grace's cau- 
 tions and as carefully kept himself from any promise 
 of secrecy. He was, however, much troubled, and
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 383 
 
 not without cause, though he comforted himself with 
 the idea that Craig could not afford to lose his place, 
 that Grace was too formidable to offend, and that 
 very likely Craig would prudently remember what 
 had been said to him.
 
 XXXIX 
 
 FEW minutes before six Roger Grace 
 walked, smiling, into his own private 
 office. His partners and Archer greeted 
 him warmly. He gave no explanation 
 of his silence and long absence. None 
 was asked ; he was a man whom people did not ques- 
 tion. He had the habit of taciturn attention; men 
 talked on and said to him things they had not meant 
 to say. On his way home he had deeply studied the 
 situation. Now he began: 
 
 "I see, Archer, that the Republic Trust has 
 stopped payment, and that Thurston has run away. 
 Let us deal with this first. It is a bad case, I fear. ' ' 
 Pencil in hand, cheerful and competent, he made 
 notes as his questions were answered. 
 
 "Did Fairthorne sell?" he asked his counsel. 
 "What! And at sixty-five?" He noted the amount, 
 "We must set it up again. This little panic will 
 not last." He ran over a list of names and securi- 
 ties. "Among us we must help about half of these 
 men." He went on, clear, confident, pleasantly de- 
 cisive, until the bank presidents came. With their 
 consultation, which lasted until nine o'clock, this tale 
 has nothing to do. 
 
 "There is no one like him," said his partner to 
 384
 
 i 
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 385 
 
 Archer, as Grace left them. "But his absence has 
 cost us dear, and where the deuce was he ? " 
 
 ' ' Ask him, ' ' said Archer. 
 
 "Not I." 
 
 Grace went home exhausted; he had gone since 
 morning without food, and despite his rude health 
 he was not yet the man he had been a fortnight 
 before. 
 
 Miss Clementina met him in the hall, a trifle shy, 
 a trifle red, glad to see him. He greeted her coldly, 
 said he was tired, and asked for supper. He ate it 
 in silence and went up-stairs, where he found Knell- 
 wood in his study. They shook hands, and Grace 
 lit a cigar. 
 
 "Yes, I am back, and find that my absence has 
 hurt many. ' ' 
 
 "But you could not help it," said Knell wood. 
 
 "No, but the cost, the cost! It ends the only 
 dream of my life, Knellwood. You really must feel 
 by this time that I am right. I shall get away, go 
 to the country forget, if I can. I may have com- 
 mitted myself, but, whether or not, anything is bet- 
 ter for her than to marry a sot. I thought for a mo- 
 ment that I would tell her." 
 
 "That would be best," said Knellwood. 
 
 "No, I cannot." 
 
 "You are wrong, altogether wrong, unjust to 
 yourself, unfair to a woman. Let her choose. ' ' 
 
 "I dare not. She might Ah! I c"annot run 
 even the small risk of her saying yes. And then, if 
 this awful thing gets to be known ! ' ' 
 
 "How can it? Take my advice. You are too 
 
 25
 
 386 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 near it all for thought to be reasonable. Talk some 
 day to Archer. It is a malaria of the mind, of the 
 morals. Go to bed now. ' ' 
 
 "What a good fellow you are," Grace said, smiling. 
 "So Archer won't let you work? Come out to the 
 farm." 
 
 "Perhaps, after a while." 
 
 "How is Miss Letitia? I did not see her." 
 
 "As always," said Knellwood. "Miss Fairthorne 
 says she is like a dried primrose dropped out of one 's 
 grandmama's Bible." 
 
 "That 's pretty and gentle. Well, good night, 
 Knellwood." 
 
 The next day, at evening, Grace went away to his 
 farm near Edgewood, saying that he would keep his 
 rooms, of course; he might need them. He really 
 meant not to return in the fall. When, at the end of 
 a week he had not been near them, Clementina set 
 herself to accept the disaster of her broken romance, 
 and to persuade herself that, after all, it had been 
 mere kindness. Life had not been tender to the 
 little gentlewoman and now she was hit hard and 
 felt it perhaps more than the rich or prosperous 
 could have done. She was a woman of good mind, 
 and as she prepared to accept a darkened life she 
 tried to think calmly of what had caused his abrupt 
 change. No ! She was too feminine not to be sure 
 of what Roger Grace must have wished. He was a 
 reasonable, a kindly, and a good man. 
 
 ' ' Not quite like us, dear, ' ' said Letitia ; ' ' that needs 
 generations. But a very nice man. One really might 
 hesitate to say he is a gentleman, in our sense. ' '
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 387 
 
 "But would you say he is not one?" returned 
 Clementina, a little hurt. What did she care ? She 
 loved him, and oh, if she could only ask frankly 
 what she had done, for to seek the blame there was 
 as natural to her as to seek it elsewhere would have 
 been to many. 
 
 Knellwood alone understood this simple tragedy, 
 and watched its effects, pitiful and touched. 
 
 Meanwhile, the days went by as usual at Edge- 
 wood, no better, no worse. Pilgrim, now able to 
 walk out, put off his visit day after day, hating to 
 face Mrs. Hunter again. Blount, of whom Grace 
 asked no further questions, was at the farm or in 
 town, delighted to aid Archer in his laboratory study 
 of South American arrow poisons, or to find time 
 for a visit to Margaret Swanwick, and to see the 
 pleasant people who to him were so new and so 
 fresh. He had meant to keep some watch upon 
 Craig, and had a young fellow's kindly dream of in- 
 fluencing the man for good. He did manage to meet 
 him, but it was only to escape in disgust, or to hear 
 him boast of what he could do with Grace, and that 
 he was as safe as a bank, which just then lacked 
 value as a comparison. It was impossible not to dis- 
 trust him and his confident protests. Blount began 
 to foresee trouble. Should he warn Grace, or tell 
 Dr. Archer? An older man would have been less 
 puzzled. But what, after all, could a fellow like 
 Craig do? It was not in Blount to have imagined 
 what did happen. 
 
 Of a Saturday morning Eoger Grace, pleased at 
 his recent financial success and at the better turn of
 
 388 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 affairs, sat looking at his correspondence. Of a sud- 
 den his face changed, as he read a letter, sealed with 
 wax, and marked ' ' Private. ' ' It ran thus : 
 
 ' 
 
 " I know all about you in Carlisle. If you will send a check 
 to bearer for three hundred dollars, to Cyrus Peters, General 
 Post-Office, I will never tell. If you do not send it in three 
 days there will be something come out you won't like." 
 
 Grace sat still, looked at the seal, the paper, the 
 writing. He was terribly perplexed. It is hard to 
 conceive how disastrous the chance of this revelation 
 appeared to him. He seemed to see the sensational 
 headlines in the Sunday papers, the dastardly 
 phrases the baser newspaper employs to conceal the 
 slanderer and without use of a name to make clear 
 who is stabbed. 
 
 "Blackmail," said Grace; "if I send it that is 
 only the beginning. If I set a watch and catch him, 
 it will all come out from mere desire of revenge or 
 in court. Yes, even if I convict ; but how could he 
 prove it? And who is he? I am lost! It is what 
 I always feared. Who could know ? ' ' He dismissed 
 instantly the idea that Blount could have spoken or 
 that any one in Carlisle could have known him. His 
 precautions had always been excessive. 
 
 But if it came out! Oh, if He looked back 
 over his life of purity and absolute rectitude, thought 
 of John Fairthorne's sneer, of the regret of the 
 Swanwicks, of Archer, of the men who, envying 
 him, would fasten on this story with amusement. 
 With all his positive business capacity, he was a 
 man tenderly sensitive and deeply religious. Now,
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 389 
 
 again reflecting, he said that he should be called a 
 hypocrite. No, he must pay, but first he must talk 
 to Martin Blount. 
 
 When that evening he sat with Blount in the par- 
 lor of the gray stone farm-house, he handed him the 
 letter and said: 
 
 "Read that." 
 
 The younger man showed very little astonishment. 
 
 "Well, I never thought he would do as mean a 
 thing as this." 
 
 "Who, Martin?" 
 
 "Mr. Grace, I see now I may have been wrong, al- 
 though whether I was wrong or not this might have 
 happened. Lionel Craig saw you with me at Car- 
 lisle. He alone could have written that letter." 
 Then he related what had occurred. 
 
 Grace smoked quietly until he had heard it all, 
 asked a question or two, and said : 
 
 "You should have warned me." 
 
 ' ' At first I could n 't ; you were awfully upset, sir, 
 over the telegrams and letters. I was on the point 
 of speaking of it, and then " 
 
 "No, you were right; but later later " 
 
 "Ah, he promised never to say a word about it. I 
 did not believe him, but I never dreamed of a thing 
 like this, and so I just waited, and at last I hated 
 to talk to you about it. I was wrong. When 
 things went on and nothing happened I just 
 couldn't." 
 
 Grace sat smoking as he listened. 
 
 "I see your difficulty. Had I known I should 
 have bribed him to hold his tongue. Now he has
 
 390 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 asked to be bribed. Don't worry yourself about it. 
 It had to happen. To know who it is does not help 
 me. I simply cannot afford to have this thing get 
 out." 
 
 "But you won't pay this beast? Why, sir, there 
 is no end to such paying ! ' ' 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "But, excuse me, sir, it would be wrong wicked." 
 
 "Yes, I know." 
 
 Martin was bewildered for a moment. He had ex- 
 pected an outburst of anger and swift, resolute re- 
 prisal. It seemed to him easy to arrest the man and 
 finish the matter. He was sure, from what he knew 
 of Craig, that the mere threat of arrest would end it. 
 But Grace had said he meant to pay, after which 
 they sat a long while, neither of them speaking, both 
 busily thinking. 
 
 The two men had many characteristics in common, 
 but the successful banker was by far the more sen- 
 sitive person. Perhaps, too, he overestimated the 
 value of the society which was pleasantly accepting 
 him, and also the force of its opinion and the inter- 
 est with which it regarded passing events. Either 
 Archer or Masters could have told him that few peo- 
 ple would care, and that those who did would forget 
 it in a fortnight. Perhaps what most influenced 
 his timid decision was the thought of the woman in 
 whom he had developed a love which was a flower 
 before he thought it could be a bud. He was an 
 educable man, and she, in her refinements of person 
 and manners, had innocently taught him much. He 
 had come to value her opinion, to consult her tastes,
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 391 
 
 and now what a gulf there was between them! He 
 over-imagined her disgust, and what she might say 
 of him. 
 
 As he thus sadly tortured himself, the younger 
 man was more wholesomely busy. He looked at 
 Grace, and knew that for himself, at least, to reason 
 with the man would be vain. He was too young to 
 have weight with him. The fact that this gnat could 
 sting to madness of folly so noble a life as that of 
 his generous benefactor aroused his anger. His 
 wrath was the greater because of the promise Craig 
 had made and broken, and because of his own feeling 
 that he had been an idiot to trust him at all. He 
 blamed himself for this and accepted the thought 
 that he, as well as Mr. Grace, was injured. At last 
 he said: 
 
 "I suppose, sir, this scamp will not draw your 
 check before Tuesday, if," he added, "you send it." 
 He still hoped for a better way out of it. In his 
 trouble he ventured to say, "I do wish you would 
 just arrest the fellow." 
 
 The banker rose, and, with a hand on Martin's 
 shoulder, said : "I do not wish to discuss this matter 
 further. My mind is made up. I shall mail my 
 check to-morrow. Fortunately for you, you have 
 nothing more to do with it. You acted as seemed 
 best to you, and I least of all blame you. Let us drop 
 it." For a moment he was silent, and then went 
 on: "It is due to you, who wonder at my decision, 
 to say that I have imperative motives and reasons 
 about which I cannot talk. Most men would say 
 weaknesses. I am ashamed, Martin, to recall for
 
 392 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 you and myself what you saw. It is horrible ! I 
 would, at need, bury it in gold. Never let us speak 
 of it again. It has cost too much, too much of things 
 better than gold ; and now this is between us, never 
 speak of it. What are you doing with Archer at 
 the laboratory? It interests me." He discussed 
 Blount's reply with intelligence, and seemed able 
 calmly to dismiss what kept incessantly distracting 
 Blount. But when night came Grace lay awake, as 
 he rarely did, for not without pain of mind does a 
 strong man become the fool of fear. 
 
 As there was work to be watched in the labora- 
 tory Martin took an early train to the city on Mon- 
 day. He had passed through the stage of anger 
 into a condition of stern resolve to settle with Craig. 
 He felt the necessity as he usually felt a debt. He 
 found that Archer had left directions which would 
 give him a full day's work. He said to himself that 
 Craig would keep, and gave him that day no further 
 thought. 
 
 On the morning of Tuesday he disposed of the 
 laboratory work very early. As he passed through 
 Archer's library he picked up a slim bamboo cane. 
 and, swinging it vindictively, went away toward 
 Market Street. When, in a third-class hotel, he asked 
 the clerk if Mr. Craig were in he replied that he was, 
 and that he guessed he would be all day. Blount 
 announced, without mental reserve, that he was 
 Craig's friend, and went up-stairs. 
 
 His knock was not answered, and he had to make 
 an unseemly noise before his louder summons 
 brought Craig to the door in a shabby dressing-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 393 
 
 gown. He was sober, but red-eyed from his de- 
 bauch of the preceding night. 
 
 "Oh, it 's you," said Craig. 
 
 "Yes, it is I." He went in, and locking the door 
 put the key in his pocket. 
 
 "What 's that for?" said Craig, in alarm. His 
 mind at once reverted to the letter. Ever since, 
 with the cheerful courage of alcohol, he had sent it 
 and even after receiving Grace's reply it had been a 
 source of terror. He was now nervous and fearful. 
 
 "You get out of here," he said. Something in 
 the look of Blount seemed to threaten, and the rosy 
 little man was born a coward. Blount began at 
 once: 
 
 "Sit down, I want to talk to you. Oh, you 
 won't?" He thrust him into a chair and stood over 
 him. "Keep quiet and listen to me. You lied to 
 me, you miserable little wretch. You promised to 
 hold your tongue about Mr. Grace. I am going to 
 take it out of your hide. I said I would I warned 
 you. ' ' 
 
 Craig cried out in vain: 
 
 "Murder! Murder! Please don't. I was tight. 
 I did n 't think what I was doing. I '11 never, never 
 do it again. You hurt me." 
 
 ' ' Do what again ? ' ' asked Blount. "It is no use to 
 howl. I shall be through with you before any one 
 can come." Then, seeing the abject terror of the 
 man, he had a bright idea. " If I don 't beat you will 
 you tell me all about it? And mind you, I shall 
 know if you lie. You can 't fool me this time. Now, 
 out with it. ' '
 
 394 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Craig began to consider how little he need tell. 
 
 ' ' Well, ' ' and the bamboo shook ominously. ' ' You 
 said you would never speak of it. You did talk." 
 
 "I swear I never told any one but my sister." 
 
 "Mrs. Hunter! You told her?" exclaimed Mar- 
 tin, astonished. 
 
 "Oh, she won't tell. She said I was a fool to 
 talk." This was also Martin's opinion. He had 
 heard enough of the secretary to know that she was 
 disliked by Mrs. Swanwick. Was she, too, by any 
 possibility concerned in the letter to Grace? He 
 had heard Archer speak of her as an adventuress. 
 He said, quickly : 
 
 "You are thinking, you cur, how little you must 
 tell to get out of a bad scrape. Now, take care how 
 you answer me. Was she in the whole of this 
 business ? ' ' 
 
 "What business? I don't know what you mean." 
 
 Blount 's patience was at an end. The bamboo fell 
 cruelly across Craig's shoulders, as Martin cried out : 
 
 "You liar!" This time Craig was conquered. 
 He whimpered: 
 
 "That hurt. I '11 tell if you if you won't" 
 
 "No, I will let you off if you speak out. I said 
 I would, but you believe nobody. Now, perhaps you 
 know I am in earnest." 
 
 "Well," said Craig, sullenly, "what do you 
 want?" 
 
 "Does your sister know what you have done? 
 Come, now." 
 
 "No, she don't." 
 
 "When did you do it?"
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 395 
 
 "Are you going to tell Mr. Grace?" 
 
 "I! No, indeed. When was it?" 
 
 "When was what?" 
 
 "I think you must be itching for the rest of that 
 thrashing. What a fool you are!" 
 
 Craig looked up at the grim and lowering face. 
 "I wrote it on Friday. I was n't myself. If you 
 won't tell Mr. Grace I '11 swear I '11 never do it 
 again." For a moment he was of a mind to hand 
 over Grace's letter and the check to bearer which 
 he had in his pocket. Then he reconsidered it; 
 Grace would not know. For once he believed; 
 Blount had declared that he would not tell Grace. 
 "You promise me you won't tell Mr. Grace? 
 You swear?" 
 
 "I never swear," said Martin. "I said I would 
 not tell him. You may be sure." Then Craig de- 
 termined to keep the money. 
 
 Blount let go his hold and sat down. The thought 
 of securing the letter Grace wrote did not occur to 
 him. He was otherwise occupied. He now knew 
 all about it, and not alone from Grace. He was 
 free to speak out to Archer, for he felt entirely as- 
 sured that the man at his side would talk freely when 
 again in liquor, and be still capable of doing mis- 
 chief. How to provide against this he did not know. 
 It was like dealing with a half-imbecile child. 
 Archer might help him. He was sure, at all events, 
 that the blackmailing had come to an end. But 
 what of the sister? These thoughts passed rapidly 
 through his mind as he sat. Craig, furtively 
 watchful, said for a moment no word, but as Blount
 
 396 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 rose he spoke. ' ' You said you would n 't tell Grace ? 
 You won't go and tell any one?" 
 
 "I make no other promises. If you do not keep 
 straight and quit drinking I may have to see if 
 your sister can do anything with you. ' ' Craig 's un- 
 easiness was very evident. Blount continued: "Re- 
 member one thing: if Mr. Grace gets to know who 
 wrote that letter you will be in the penitentiary in 
 no time. I came here on my own quarrel. We are 
 quits." It was like him to turn back and, with 
 some sense of pity, to say: 
 
 "Why don't you quit drinking and behave your- 
 self? If you would just try I would help you." 
 
 "Oh, you go away and let me alone. You 've 
 bullied me enough, and now you want to talk Sun- 
 day-school. ' ' 
 
 Blount 's face grew hard; he made no reply, but 
 went out and down the stairs. It was now one 
 o'clock and, as he had expected, he found Archer at 
 home and about to lunch. 
 
 "Sit down, Blount," he said; "you are doing my 
 work very well. There is nothing like the laboratory 
 to train a man to exactness. Individuality must 
 always keep our work at the bedside more or less an 
 art. It never can have the precision of science so 
 long as one man differs from another. So long as 
 men so differ there will be the chance of our being 
 unable to foresee results with certainty." 
 
 Such talk usually delighted Blount ; now he failed 
 to respond, and only said: "I came here to talk 
 to you about something serious. I am not sure that 
 I am right to talk."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 397 
 
 "Then don't." 
 
 "But I must." 
 
 "Then talk. By St. Mayflower! You Yankees 
 are queer folk. That ship must have carried a 
 heavy freight of conscience. It has lasted long. 
 What 's the matter, Martin?" 
 
 "I will try to state it. While Mr. Grace was 
 away a very unpleasant thing happened. I was 
 there and saw it. It concerned Mr. Grace, and it is 
 a thing which ought never to get out." 
 
 "Indeed!" Archer took up a paper-knife and 
 began to bend and handle it, a trick he had when 
 attentive to a patient's talk. 
 
 "I made some kind of promise to Mr. Grace not 
 to speak of it. ' ' 
 
 "You are not going to now?" 
 
 "Oh, no ; but if you will just let me go on you will 
 see why I want advice." 
 
 "Very good. Go on." 
 
 "I said it must not get out. Now, what I saw a 
 fellow named Craig saw too. He 's a brother of 
 that Mrs. Hunter and is a clerk in Mr. Grace 's office. 
 Do you know him, sir ? " 
 
 "I think I have seen him. I cannot say I know 
 him." 
 
 "Well, he is a pretty little man, without a shred 
 of character. He gambles, and drinks, and gabbles. 
 He swore he would never speak of this matter. But 
 he did ; he told his sister. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, his sister! And what next, Martin?" 
 
 "I went there to-day to lick him because he lied 
 to me."
 
 398 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 ' ' The remedy was heroic. ' ' 
 
 "I did n't hurt him much, because he broke up 
 and confessed the whole thing. ' ' 
 
 "Confessed what?" 
 
 "Why, that he had told his sister and the rest." 
 
 "What else? Let me hear it all. You are rather 
 exasperating as a story-teller." 
 
 "Now, that 's where my difficulty comes in. You 
 see, I myself am pledged to Mr. Grace not to speak 
 of it. Then this man tells me to-day oh, I made 
 him the whole story, and what he did. Now, I 
 want to ask you if, after I hear it all from another 
 than Mr. Grace, shall I do wrong to tell you ? ' ' 
 
 Archer reflected. 
 
 "Are you sure that to do so will be of any service 
 to Mr. Grace?" 
 
 "I don't know. Unless some one is able to stop 
 this fellow he will babble it out in every bar-room. 
 He has done worse already. I think he is afraid of 
 his sister, for he begged me not to tell her. I said 
 I would not promise." 
 
 Archer got up and walked about, while Blount 
 waited. 
 
 "Martin, years ago, when I was young like you, 
 and pretty nearly penniless, I went to ask Mr. Grace 
 if he would take as security a mortgage on a small 
 property of my mother's in the South, and lend me 
 money to secure me a year in Germany. He talked 
 to me awhile, and said no, but that he would lend 
 me the money on my personal pledge to pay when 
 I could. He was not then as he is now, a very 
 rich man. I took it frankly. If I can help him in
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 399 
 
 any trouble I am at his service and yours. I think 
 you may speak freely. I suppose it is a woman." 
 
 "Oh, no, sir!" said Blount, much relieved. 
 "Craig and I saw Mr. Grace at Carlisle drunk." 
 
 ' ' What- Grace ? Incredible ! ' ' 
 
 "Yes, sir, it is true. I think that it must be a 
 very rare thing in him." 
 
 Archer had heard of the banker's unaccountable 
 absences. He at once remembered two other cases 
 of this strange form of temptation. "Well, go on. * 
 What next?" 
 
 "Craig had himself been drinking. I persuaded 
 him to go away before Mr. Grace was able to recog- 
 nize any one." He went on to relate what had 
 passed, and Craig's confession of the blackmailing 
 letter. Archer said : 
 
 ' ' That is a queer tale, but the matter seems simple. 
 Mr. Grace has only to arrest the man." 
 
 "He won't. He has paid." 
 
 "Not really!" 
 
 "Yes, and I can't explain it. He 's like a scared 
 girl about it, and he '11 go on paying if that fellow 
 asks him; and, as if that is n't enough, the scamp 
 will be sure to get drunk and talk. I said he had 
 told his sister. Cannot you do something, Dr. 
 Archer ? ' ' 
 
 "I think I can, Martin. I will try." He knew 
 that he must not speak to Grace. He ought to re- 
 cover the letter and check and have a more distinct 
 confession. That would surely end it. Merely 
 again to scare the young man would be useless. 
 There was still Mrs. Hunter. Over this he hesitated
 
 400 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 long. A part of his indecision was due to his diffi- 
 culty in comprehending the motive which had influ- 
 enced Grace. He had in himself nothing which 
 could explain to him how such a man could become 
 the easy victim of a drunken boy. 
 
 When at last he fully decided to act through Lu- 
 cretia he believed that he was swayed alone by the 
 feeling that it was right to serve one who had helped 
 him, and that it was a wise thing to do. That his 
 intense dislike of Mrs. Hunter had any effect in 
 bringing about his final determination he was far 
 from apprehending. Nor was he yet sure that she 
 might not have had a hand in the matter, and if so 
 she would be in his power and must go. The 
 thought was one more proof of how little he under- 
 stood Lucretia. Leaving out Grace, the most effi- 
 cient motive which urged him to act through Mrs. 
 Hunter was Blount's unfaltering conviction that no 
 ordinary motives would permanently stop the tongue 
 of Lionel Craig.
 
 XL 
 
 we have said, on Sunday Grace had 
 sent his cheek for three hundred "to 
 bearer" to the address given in Craig's 
 note. Reflection had only strength- 
 ened his desire to bribe the man to 
 silence. He asked for Craig on Monday morning, 
 and was told that he was absent and said to be sick. 
 To the surprise of West, he made no comment, but 
 plunged at once into the details of a difficult suit 
 against a Chicago bank. 
 
 Since the Fairthornes had left town Archer had 
 seen nothing of Mary, but she was one of the board 
 of ladies who visited the children 's wards of the hos- 
 pital, and this and other matters served as an excuse 
 for writing to her. He felt, too, as she did, that in 
 a letter she got nearer to him than she ever did in 
 personal talk. As he drove about he read her reply 
 to a letter concerning a gift of books for the chil- 
 dren's ward and other matters. 
 
 "DEAR DR. ARCHER, " she wrote, "When next I come to 
 town I will ask my sister to help me select the books. I am 
 most glad to assist you." 
 
 Then she questioned about some of the little ones 
 whom to send to the seashore and how to manage it. 
 
 26 401
 
 402 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 " You say that you are not always happy who is! But your 
 life surely ought to content you. It is so full, so complete ; I 
 seem to lead a life of trifles. I read, and sew, and garden, and 
 ride. My duties and my pleasant hours with my uncle (for, 
 despite his peculiarities, they were often pleasant) are over. 
 My cousin has become irritable and dissatisfied. If I were 
 but let alone I might endure it, but Mrs. H. does really seem 
 to enjoy the game of opposing me. 
 
 " The garden has always been my special care. This woman 
 cuts my flowers, and orders what changes she will. Yesterday 
 the horse we use in the dog-cart was lame. She drove my 
 saddle-horse. We had some sharp words, but it was useless. 
 Most of the time she keeps a sort of guard over my uncle, who 
 is, at times, almost childish. 
 
 " I am silly to pour out my woes to you, but " (here there 
 was a careful erasure) " one must talk. When a child is hurt it 
 cries. It has ' no language but a cry.' When grown-up folks 
 are hurt, they talk of it. It seems to me only a form of crying. 
 I ought to add that I do not talk much of my moral aches ; to 
 write of them seems well, I leave to your charity what excuses 
 you choose to contribute. 
 
 "It cannot last long. The poor old gentleman is fast fading. 
 In his clearer morning hours he complains about Mr. Pilgrim's 
 delays. I wish he would come out and settle the matter. Mr. 
 Masters w'as here to-day, and stirred up my uncle, thinking 
 to amuse him. 
 
 " Dr. Soper says he is getting better ! 
 
 "Yours sincerely, 
 
 "MARY FAIRTHOKNE." 
 
 Archer read this letter more often than so simple 
 a document demanded, and at last put it in his 
 pocket, reflecting on the improbability of the writ- 
 er's ever speaking as frankly as she wrote. It had 
 not lessened his resolution to see Mrs. Hunter. And 
 yet he was in no haste. 
 
 The mischief for Grace had begun, and probably 
 no new demand would be made, at least not until
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 403 
 
 the money so easily won was spent. He was very 
 busy, and must wait. He said as much to Blount, 
 who was impatient of delay and wished to see the 
 matter settled. He asked for Craig at Grace's 
 office, but was told that he was absent and had writ- 
 ten that he was ill. When West, who disliked 
 Lionel, spoke of it to Grace, and of the utter worth- 
 lessness of the man, the banker said he would go to 
 see him. This he was sure to do in cases of sick- 
 ness among those he employed; but the partner was 
 surprised when he went on to say that Craig was 
 young, and Mr. Fairthorne had asked of him Grace 
 not to be hard on him. It was unlike his senior, 
 who was clearly indisposed to be severe or even just 
 in a matter which seemed to require to be sharply 
 dealt with. Grace did not call on the clerk. He 
 was beginning to feel what a fatal noose he had 
 cast about his own neck. 
 
 In the latter part of the day on Tuesday Archer, 
 afoot, as he liked to be in the afternoon, was busily 
 reflecting on Mary Fairthorne 's annoyances, and 
 with rather natural satisfaction on the prospect of 
 paying her debt in kind. 
 
 He was hailed by the laughing voice of Masters, 
 who, coming out of the club, joined him on Walnut 
 Street. 
 
 "Busy?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Wish I were. May is a bad month. Nothing 
 to kill but time. In June I am off to the Restigouche 
 for salmon. I think this week of trying the drum- 
 fish down the bay. Halloa! Here 's the big chap- 
 lain, Syd. What a fine cavalry colonel was lost in
 
 404 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 him. He is going to Swan wick's. He 's like a 
 stray dog tries everybody's door-steps." 
 
 "I have set him a double decalogue of things not 
 to do. He is unhappy." 
 
 "So am I, Sydney. I yearn for another good, 
 honest war, where you cannot have a doubt as to 
 which side to take. The last fellow gets me on the 
 tariff or what not." 
 
 "It was as you say, Tom; for my part, I loathed 
 it." 
 
 "But how the chaplain liked it and vowed it was 
 horrible, and how he loved the battle-line. He 's a 
 fine fellow, with all his fal-lals." 
 
 "He had them then, Tom. Do you remember 
 how fussy he was about his uniform?" 
 
 "Indeed I do!" They joined him as they ap- 
 proached the steps of Swan wick's house. 
 
 "Good evening, Tom. No one is ill, I hope, 
 Archer?" 
 
 "Oh, some small malady. Since the mamas have 
 begun to keep thermometers the doctor has no peace. 
 How are you?" 
 
 "So well that I am ashamed to be idle." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Masters, slyly, "the exercise of 
 patience may absolve from that charge." 
 
 "That does n't sound like your wisdom, Tom," 
 said the big man. 
 
 "Well, who cares where the guinea was coined? 
 If you are bored for a time, I am bored indefinitely. 
 Come and kill drum with me, and fill up the vac- 
 uums between your ribs with soft-shelled crabs and 
 sedge oysters."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 406 
 
 "No, I cannot." 
 
 "Ah," said Archer, "don't you wickedly yearn 
 sometimes, chaplain, for another ride down the val- 
 ley with Sheridan?" 
 / "Or a rally on the firing-line?" said Tom. 
 
 "Go away, little Satan," laughed the chaplain, 
 as he rang the bell, and they went, merrily chaffing 
 one another, into Mrs. Swan wick's parlor. 
 
 "Mrs. Swan wick would like Dr. Archer to go to 
 the nursery." 
 
 "I am to entertain you," said a stout lady, who 
 rose as the servant delivered her message. 
 
 Masters said: 
 
 "Glad to see you, Mrs. Cray croft." 
 
 The rector bowed to the widow. 
 
 Mrs. Craycroft is of small moment in this story, 
 but it is often the people of no personal importance 
 who bewilder the lives of men or women, and have 
 at times simply the confusing effect of displaced 
 punctuation marks. She had a wide range of shal- 
 low knowledge, was as definite as a dictionary, and 
 as sure of her facts as Tom of his first barrel when 
 his hand was in and the ducks flying low. She was 
 an uninventive gossip, and simply carried to and fro 
 her freight of facts, social or other. 
 
 In five minutes she had assured Mr. Knellwood 
 that he wore his chasuble wrong, and lectured Tom, 
 to his delight, on the breed of Chesapeake ducking 
 dogs. When, by and by, Archer returned with 
 Margaret Swanwick, she instructed the doctor on 
 the condition of one of her friends then under his 
 care and advised a change of treatment.
 
 406 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Archer laughed and said it was an addition to 
 medicine. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "you may smile. I have seen it 
 tried. And, dear," she added to Margaret, "don't 
 let them over-ventilate the nursery. The doctors 
 will do it." 
 
 "Of course not," said Madge, while Knellwood 
 and Archer exchanged smiles, and Masters content- 
 edly listened. 
 
 The chat soon became less general, and the widow 
 grew positive as to a variety of social items, and 
 asked Margaret in an aside if Mr. Pilgrim were 
 really engaged to Mary Fairthorne. Margaret, ac- 
 customed to a curiosity which merely collected facts 
 and was free from malice, said : 
 
 "No; what a strange report! Don't repeat it, 
 Sarah." 
 
 "Certainly not. I merely ask you. I never re- 
 peat things unless I am sure of their truth. Who 
 is Kitty's last victim?" 
 
 "Herself," said Margaret, laughing. "That is a 
 constant love affair." 
 
 After other talk the men went away, and Mrs. 
 Craycroft began to discuss Mrs. Hunter. She had 
 been out to lunch with Mary, and had thought Mary 
 must find her such an interesting companion, so gay, 
 so clever. It was well Mr. Fairthorne was not 
 younger. But where did the woman come from ? 
 
 Margaret said curtly that she did not know, and 
 made it so plain that Lucretia was not a person she 
 would talk about that Mrs. Craycroft retired from 
 the subject, saying:
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 407 
 
 "Well, she is interesting enough to make one curi- 
 ous; but then, Margaret, you are so wanting in 
 curiosity. ' ' 
 
 Madge smiled. 
 
 "Indeed, I am often curious to know why you are 
 curious. ' ' 
 
 "Bless me, how complicated!" she cried, as Miss 
 Katherine Morrow entered. Kitty kissed her cousin 
 on both cheeks, asked how dear Mrs. Craycroft was, 
 adding, "What a too lovely gown!" and "How are 
 the dear children, Madge?" She was inwardly re- 
 lieved to hear that Jack had a cold and Retta was 
 asleep. The maternal instinct slumbered in Kitty; 
 children bored her. If ever this instinct should 
 awake in her it would be as despotic and as unrea- 
 soning as that of a panther for her young. 
 
 Mrs. Swanwick soon went back to Jack, leaving the 
 two to the game of ' ' Have you heard ? ' ' and ' ' Do you 
 know?" Kitty's facts were not accepted without 
 critical examination. Presently the widow said: 
 
 "You missed Father Knell wood. He looked so 
 well and so handsome ! I had to correct him about 
 his way of wearing the chasuble, and, really, last 
 Sunday the incense was oh, it smelled atro- 
 ciously ! ' ' 
 
 Kitty, a little confused, said something incredibly 
 silly about the odor of sanctity, which made the 
 older woman, who had no full-blown sense of humor, 
 stare at her with astonishment, and say: "I really 
 do not quite understand you. Do you know that 
 Father Knellwood is going to Europe? We shall 
 miss him sadly."
 
 408 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "To Europe!" gasped Kitty. "Who told you?" 
 
 "I overheard him say he thought of it, and that 
 Dr. Archer said he ought to go. Mr. Masters asked 
 him when he sailed. I hope it does not mean Rome. 
 He is certainly going." 
 
 Kitty had grown white to the lips. As the widow 
 spoke she saw the girl's quivering lip, but had the 
 good sense to go on talking. Kitty caught her 
 breath and rallied, as she said : ' ' I scarcely think it 
 can be true." 
 
 "Perhaps not," returned Mrs. Craycroft, "but he 
 is thinking of it; and now I must go, dear. Tell 
 Margaret I could not wait." She had ignorantly 
 done mischief. 
 
 Kitty, left alone, burst into tears. She had 
 waited with her little traps set, and circumstance 
 had not been her friend. Mrs. Hunter had promised 
 all manner of things, and now here was the end ! 
 
 Mrs. Hunter had reconsidered her beliefs about 
 Knellwood. She had reached the opinion that he 
 did not now care enough for Kitty to break through 
 the pale of denials he had set about his life. At 
 one time she had thought otherwise, but there was, 
 even for Lucretia's skepticism, something convincing 
 in the man and his ways. She had for a time gone 
 regularly to St. Agnes 's, but had excused herself 
 from church work on various pretenses. More re- 
 cently, she had now and then attended some short ser- 
 vice with Kitty. Her own church, which was that 
 of Rome, she cared as little about, and the move to 
 Edgewood agreeably relieved her of all need to 
 keep up a tiresome pretense.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 409 
 
 Knellwood had not been very long deceived as to 
 Mrs. Hunter's religious earnestness. Despite what 
 Mary Fairthorne called his omnivorous charity of 
 opinion, he had begun to feel that there was some- 
 thing untrustworthy in Lucretia. He could not 
 have explained what was more a feeling than a con- 
 viction ; but the instincts of a gentleman are some- 
 times wiser than his intelligence. Of late he had 
 heard too much of this once ardent seeker after 
 truth and work. 
 
 Lucretia had no mind that Kitty should marry 
 any one. For a time this longing for the love of 
 a man who was apparently not of the world of those 
 who marry had seemed to her useful, but a wilder 
 passion than she had it in her nature to comprehend 
 possessed Katherine Morrow with a power which 
 swept away the barriers of conventional training. 
 
 Margaret, returning, surprised the girl in an at- 
 tempt to wipe away her tears. 
 
 "Why, Kitty," she said, "what is the matter, 
 dear?" 
 
 Kitty looked about her little mind for a plausible 
 lie, and said : 
 
 "Mrs. Craycroft abused Lucretia." 
 
 "Indeed," returned Madge, puzzled, for the col- 
 lector of facts never abused any one. "I rather 
 thought she liked her." 
 
 "No, no," cried Kitty, decorating her invention; 
 "she said she came from no one knew where. She 
 said oh, I could n't stand it! You all hate her." 
 She made herself angry to relieve the fury of an- ; 
 other passion.
 
 410 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "I certainly do not love her," said Madge; "sup- 
 pose we drop her. Stay and dine; we can wire 
 Edgewood and Harry will take you to the nine 
 train." 
 
 "No, I must go. I never see you or talk to Mary 
 without your getting on to this subject and abusing 
 a woman who who understands me as you have 
 never done." 
 
 "But it was you, Kitty, who brought up this 
 woman. I never mention her to you, and indeed we 
 never see you." 
 
 "And will not soon again, I can assure you. 
 Good evening." 
 
 This was rather too much for even Madge's well- 
 trained temper. "You are both incomprehensible 
 and ill mannered. Nothing was said to justify such 
 words as you have just used. I shall leave you, and 
 I advise you not to go out until you have quieted 
 down a little. No; I will not listen to another 
 word," and with this the little mistress of the house 
 retired to the nursery. Kitty sat still in the parlor. 
 In a moment Madge was forgotten, and her eyes 
 began to fill. 
 
 Oh, surely this man must love her. It was a gift 
 this bliss of love which she had never before had 
 to give. Could it be that this one man did not want 
 it? Or was it really his principles which forbade 
 avowal, or and she sat up was he fleeing from a 
 temptation he dared not meet? She felt that only 
 the chance of an hour was wanting; how happy she 
 could make him, and how good she would become 
 if he were but hers. As she sat still she flushed,
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 411 
 
 her mouth grew dry, her heart beat in her neck and 
 against her breast. She stood up, a woman in the 
 toils of passion a soul astray if ever there were one. 
 
 "If I could but see him! Oh, I must I must!" 
 
 For good or ill her prayer was granted. Cyril 
 Knellwood entered the room, and in an instant knew 
 his peril. He made haste to explain his return. 
 
 ' ' Is Mrs. Swanwick in ? I forgot to ask her some- 
 thing. I want to see her. I came to ask her to 
 receive at the farm school a little scamp who can 
 be helped; it is very odd how one forgets." He 
 talked on, speaking fast. Then the servant came in 
 to say that Mrs. Swanwick could not leave the chil- 
 dren, and must be excused. 
 
 Knellwood got up. "I am sorry. I must go." 
 
 "Just a moment," said Kitty. "You need not 
 wait," this last to the servant. 
 
 The rector felt the danger, but the habit of cour- 
 tesy forbade his insisting, when Kitty added, in a 
 voice near to breaking: "I must see you for for 
 a moment." 
 
 "What is it?" he asked, and sat down, laying his 
 hat beside him, while, with a hand on his cross, he 
 waited. 
 
 Kitty's face fell for an instant, and then, looking 
 up at him, she said: "Are you really going to 
 Europe?" 
 
 Up to this time his voyage had been in doubt. He 
 made an instant decision. "Yes, I am going; and, 
 pardon me, but I am in great haste. Good-bye." 
 
 Then Kitty broke down. The poor, foolish little 
 beauty had always had her way. It was she who
 
 412 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 denied. Now she caught the note of severe formality 
 in his voice and saw his face set sternly. To his 
 horror, she exclaimed : "You cannot go !" and caught 
 his hand, looking up at him, as he stood appalled 
 at her outbreak. She went on wildly: "You are 
 cruel ! Cruel ! You have made me love you. You 
 have ruined my life. Pity me ! You cannot go 
 away and leave me. Say you will not go! You 
 know I love you!" She lifted up her charming, 
 rosy face, raining tears on his hand. He was speech- 
 less before this wail of passion. Drawing back, he 
 said: 
 
 "My poor child! May God be my witness that I 
 have never done anything to make you care for me. 
 Do you know what you are doing?" 
 
 ' ' I don 't care. I love you ! ' ' 
 
 "I pray you not to say this. I have never 
 never ' ' 
 
 She broke in: "Never never? You asked why I 
 did not any longer call you Father. Oh, what did 
 that mean? I was sure it meant Oh, you can't 
 say it meant nothing!" 
 
 It was the one little joint in his armor. She had 
 found it. He was too honest to say it meant noth- 
 ing. It was not quite true that he had done nothing 
 to betray himself. He was terribly shaken, and 
 moved away as he said: "Miss Morrow, this must 
 end here and now. You are a young girl. You 
 are doing a wrong and an imprudent thing." He 
 looked down from his great height on the yellow 
 hair, the face of pleading passion. His eyes filled. 
 "I am pledged to Christ's work, and to it alone. I 
 cannot marry. I never shall. I beg of you "
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 413 
 
 ' ' What do I care ? " she broke in. "I want love- 
 love. You have cheated me." i 
 
 The rector said sternly : 
 
 "I must go, and at once. Some one may come 
 at any moment. I beg of you to let me go.'*^ 
 
 "Who cares?" she cried. In her madness she 
 stood resolute between him and the door. 
 
 "Either," he said, "you go or I must ring." His 
 voice broke with the vast pity he felt for her, the 
 fear he had of himself, and it was very great. 
 
 She passed him as he spoke, and, turning in the 
 doorway, cried : " I hate you ! I wish I could kill 
 you! You have broken my heart." 
 
 She would never in all her life know how measure- 
 less was the temptation to the man who stepped by 
 her, saying: "May the good God pity and help 
 you," adding, in thought, "and me, his servant!" 
 
 He was sinning against nature, thinking so to serve 
 God, and nearly lost self-control. To say "I love 
 you ' ' would have been so easy and so true, and, alas ! 
 so delightful. His hand clutched the gold cross till 
 it broke in his grasp. In her, love had turned to 
 anger and shame. 
 
 She ran down the steps, and walked swiftly away ; 
 while he, going back for his hat, was aware of the 
 broken cross in his hand and/me torn ribbon. Once 
 outside he walked westward in the darkening twi- 
 light, sternly questioning himself. No ! His con- 
 science was clear, but for that one slip. He groaned. 
 Had he shown her the love he felt? No, never! 
 Was it love a pure and honest love ? And how had 
 it come to life ? The big man shuddered. "Ah," he 
 thought, "how near damnation lies. And how piti-
 
 414 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 able it was. All for me I for me Oh, what am 
 I? My God, what am I, that I should be the cause 
 of sin?" 
 
 He went out to the river, and, crossing at Market 
 Street, walked fast and far up the Lancaster Pike. 
 It was near eleven when he reached Miss Markham 's. 
 
 He let himself in and v.ent up to Grace's study, 
 once more the steady master of himself. There and 
 then he wrote to Archer that he had at last made up 
 his mind to take the doctor's advice and go abroad. 
 "I find that I can readily manage to get three 
 months in England. Pardon my long resistance; 
 but you, who are so good to all men, will find that 
 easy." 
 
 After this he wrote to Grace, and then went to his 
 own room. When he spoke of his plan to the maiden 
 ladies they were troubled. 
 
 "Why, you are all gone, or going. Mr. Grace, 
 and Mr. Blount, and now you, ' ' said Clementina. 
 
 "But I shall be with you in the fall, and Grace, 
 too, I am sure." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Clementina, "perhaps." 
 
 "There is no perhaps in our lives, dear," said 
 Letitia, wearily. "Everything goes wrong at last, 
 no matter how fine it all seems at first." 
 
 "That is not like you, sister."
 
 XLI 
 
 the middle of this week Archer wrote to 
 Mary Fairthorne: 
 
 "DEAR Miss MARY: Thanks in advance for 
 the books. Let them be, above all, picture 
 books. 
 
 " Mr. Knellwood sails week after next. He needs it. There 
 are who say Eome ; I know better. He loathes Luther (fine 
 alliteration, that), and thinks Cranmer hardly better, grieving 
 for the way the saints with queer names were tumbled out of 
 our prayer-book. But he thinks there was, and is, a Church, 
 never the vassal of Eome, and, dear old chaplain, what kind 
 of church he would evolve if there were no bishop in the back- 
 ground, I cannot dream. But to know him you should have 
 seen him in the thick of it on Cemetery Hill. 
 
 "Mr. Pilgrim asks me to say to your uncle that he will come 
 out on Saturday morning and remain until Monday. He has 
 all the maps and plans ready, but both he and Masters advised 
 that no mines be opened until the branch rail gets into the 
 valley. Some one must meet Pilgrim at the station, 10. 15 train, 
 please. 
 
 " I shall go out to Grace's on Saturday, and if you so please, 
 Mistress Mary, will ride with you on that afternoon. I may re- 
 main until late Sunday evening. I will call for you at Edge- 
 wood at five. 
 
 " I am rather tired and want a breath of country air. There 
 are days when everything goes awry. This has been one. 
 " Save up some good talk for me, and believe me 
 "Yours truly, 
 
 "SYDNEY ARCHER." 
 415
 
 416 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 On Thursday he made his daily call on Pilgrim. 
 The engineer was fast mending, and his table was 
 strewn with letters and plans. He said: "At last, 
 Sydney, I can swing dumb-bells without things 
 creaking inside of me. I suppose this apparently 
 needless business means something. Lots of pain, 
 weeks of loss to you and me. But what it means I 
 do not see. I am no wiser and no better for that 
 fellow's bullet. I have been patient, but I am not 
 more so than I was. I know now what pain is. 
 That was a new experience." 
 
 "Well, is not that a gain? It was for me, as a 
 physician. All doctors ought to have a bout of sev- 
 eral educational diseases." 
 
 "But not engineers, if you please. I am afraid 
 that I shocked Knellwood yesterday. I asked if the 
 Maker of the world could have felt pain. I said that 
 logically he must have realized it. Knellwood has a 
 very direct and limited, but not an imaginative 
 mind." 
 
 "His goodness has no limitations," remarked 
 Sydney. ' * What did he say ? ' ' 
 
 "He said, with curious humility, that he had not 
 t/ the form of mind to grapple with such questions, 
 that faith was his form of reason. I was tempted 
 to go on, for that did seem to me too absurd, but 
 he looked so like a big, bothered child that I hesi- 
 tated. Then he said, 'But as Christ suffered, and 
 was God, we must feel that to be a sufficient answer. ' 
 When I replied that from his point of view it was 
 an answer, he said, in his courteous way, that I was 
 nearly as bad as John Fairthorne, who asked him if
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 417 
 
 the Creator chose to decree that He should not have 
 fore-knowledge would not that be possible for om- 
 nipotence." 
 
 "I don't wonder," said Archer, ''that he puzzled 
 him. I have long ceased to reason on my creed, or 
 to enjoy such subtleties. I used to like them. As 
 for poor old Fairthorne, he is past all such games 
 nowadays." 
 
 "I cannot get away from them, Sydney. I have 
 been wrestling in the twilight of recent experience 
 with this question of pain. Nature seems to me to 
 have misused her wealth of opportunities." 
 
 "Were they limitless?" 
 
 "How do I know? Pain is for the most part need- 
 less. You once told me of a man who could not feel 
 pain. What an example for nature ! ' ' 
 
 "There are worse things." 
 
 "Yes, that I know. By the way, Sydney, as I am 
 going to Edgewood, what kind of woman is that sec- 
 retary, Mrs. Hunter? Tom Masters spoke of her as 
 a remarkable woman, very handsome and clever." 
 
 When Pilgrim thus questioned it was with a grow- 
 ing doubt in his mind. Knellwood, who had the 
 reticence of a too lavish charity, had been so over- 
 careful when Pilgrim spoke of her as to arouse his 
 suspicions. Now the engineer was resolutely bent 
 on finding out whether he had been right in letting 
 a base woman work her will on a broken old man. 
 
 "By this time, Luke," said Archer, "you ought 
 to know that for dear old Tom all petticoats are ob- 
 jects of worship. He knows little of Mrs. Hunter." 
 
 "Do you know more?" 
 27
 
 418 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Yes, too much." 
 
 Pilgrim sat up, attentive. 
 
 "I have reasons for asking you, Sydney. Now, 
 if you may, tell me all about her. ' ' 
 
 "I do not see why I should not. It is a long 
 story, and a queer one." 
 
 "Well, go on." 
 
 "An unknown woman picks up Miss Morrow's 
 acquaintance, obtains absolute control over her, gets 
 as complete possession of Fairthorne, induces him to 
 give and leave her money a good deal, too breaks 
 up the family, sets poor Miss Kitty against her 
 cousins, and by degrees becomes unquestioned mis- 
 tress. I do not complain that she drove me out, but 
 the pleasure the woman takes in inflicting pain is 
 something quite amazing. I think she has but one 
 affection. It is for a girl-like, pretty young fellow, 
 her brother a drunken, dissolute cub. He is in 
 Grace's office." 
 
 "A pleasant character, Sydney. And what of 
 Miss Fairthorne in this cheerful household?" 
 
 "Read that," said Archer, "and you will see." 
 
 He gave him Mary Fairthorne 's letter, hesitating 
 a moment whether to read him parts of it or to let 
 him see it as a whole. 
 
 "Thank you," said the engineer. He read the 
 letter with care, and, slowly refolding it, replaced it 
 in the envelope. "Thank you. That is enough, and 
 too much ! Too much ! I might have known it." 
 
 "May I ask what you mean?" 
 
 "Yes; I hate it, but I must tell you." He rose 
 and began to walk about the room, speaking as he
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 419 
 
 moved. "I suppose, Sydney, I could do what is a 
 duty and a hard one without explaining myself to 
 you; but we are old friends, at least in events if 
 not in years, and, above all, your great kindness has 
 brought you very near to me. And yet, in our many 
 talks I have never spoken freely of my younger life. 
 Now I must do so, much as it hurts me. I am sud- 
 denly set face to face with a painful duty, or what ^" 
 looks like a duty. Some one should know why I 
 act, in case at any future time there arise questions. 
 Then, too, I want a man of honor to say I am right, 
 for, believe me, Archer, it has not been easy to feel 
 sure. Now, listen to me." He paused in his walk. 
 "This woman, Sydney, is I mean was oh, damn , 
 the thing ! She was my wife ! ' ' 
 
 ''Your wife! Your wife!" exclaimed Archer. 
 He was without more adequate reply than an excla- 
 mation. It seemed incredible. 
 
 "This, Sydney, of course is a surprise to you. 
 You know my temperament. You know me through 
 and through. I am a sensitive man. Even the care- 
 less words of people I love sometimes hurt me in a 
 way that to them would seem absurd. Imagine, 
 now, what a hell of memories I have carried with me 
 for these last eight years." 
 
 ' ' I see, ' ' said Archer. ' ' Having known her, I can 
 understand. If this be hard for you to speak of, 
 why go on? It is sad enough for me, who am your 
 friend. That woman must have left behind her a 
 trail of misery for many. What a devil ! ' ' 
 
 "Stop, Sydney! Please don't. I would rather 
 not hear even you abuse her." This remnant of
 
 420 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 protective tenderness seemed to Archer pitiable. 
 The speaker went on: ''Do not mistake me. It is 
 not love. That is as dead as the years that knew it. 
 I said why I must talk it all out. Now, please, not a 
 word until I have done." 
 
 "Go on, Luke." 
 
 "When I was just twenty- two, and not very 
 strong, my uncle sent me to California with John 
 Percy, the mining engineer. It was supposed that 
 I should inherit my uncle's estate, as I was his near- 
 est relative and had lived with him since I became 
 an orphan. We stayed some time at Sacramento, 
 where I fell in with a school-teacher, Inez Quinones, 
 the child, as she told me, of a Spanish ranchman, 
 as to whom there was a neatly fabricated story of 
 ruin and poverty and womanly effort on her part 
 to help herself and a half brother, the only child of 
 a second marriage. Percy, finding me troubled 
 with a cough, left me in Sacramento while he in- 
 spected certain mines. To cut it short, I had a sun- 
 stroke, and then meningitis. When I became enough 
 myself to understand things, I found that Inez, who 
 lived in the same hotel with me, had been practically 
 my only nurse. The doctor, whom she had charmed, 
 thought that she had been of inestimable service. 
 It was true. When I was able to sit up she was in 
 and out, after school hours, reading to me, singing, 
 bringing me flowers, writing my letters. 
 
 "At last, one day she burst into tears. People 
 were talking; she would lose her place. Two or 
 three days finished the matter. She was a perfect 
 actress, and much older than I. It was simple 
 enough I had an ample allowance; my uncle was a
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 421 
 
 well-known mine owner. I was sensitive, weak from 
 illness, not even quite clear in my head. I was told 
 that she had ruined her chances of self-support for 
 my sake, had neglected her duties for me. She 
 showed me, at last, her letter of dismissal received 
 from the school board. It was forged, as I knew 
 long after. 
 
 ' ' Of course, I married her. A week later my uncle 
 arrived. He saw her, went coolly into her story, 
 asked me to give her up, and when I would not con- 
 sider it in any shape left me to fight the world alone 
 with her, and without a penny. 
 
 "Well, I won't trouble you with my struggles. 
 It was hard, and harder as I learned to know her. 
 Two years passed. I acquired some practical know- 
 ledge of mines and mining. About this time I 
 bought on credit a small share of the Centre mine. 
 I went to see it for the larger owners, who paid me 
 in this way. On my return to Sacramento I found 
 that she had left me without a line or a word of ex- 
 planation. I was then about twenty-four. It was 
 for her a question of luxury or of honestly borne 
 hardship. She fled a day too soon. I was at ease 
 so far as money went, as the mine proved to be valu- 
 able. I do not mean that I was rich, but I had 
 enough. She had gone to the Sandwich Islands with 
 an Irish mine owner, a rich, coarse, decrepit old man. 
 There was no passion in it. She had always been a 
 cold-blooded woman, with capacity to act the passion 
 she never felt a woman who loved a highly seasoned 
 life. I will not tell you what I suffered before and 
 after this flight. The man got tired and dropped 
 her.
 
 422 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Then, where she went or what she did I do not 
 know, until she obtained a divorce on the ground of 
 desertion. I did not resist. Meanwhile, I did what 
 may seem even to you quixotic. I wrote to her that 
 I would not leave her to the temptation of sin be- 
 cause of want of means; that I would make her an 
 allowance of eight hundred dollars a year. She re- 
 plied, calmly, that it was very proper. From that 
 day to this she has had it. At times I lived scantily 
 to save enough ; one year I borrowed it. 
 
 "I know little of her life, except that she has 
 twice broken up families, and has always been gifted 
 with this power to win young women. I have rea- 
 sons to believe that when the Irish mine owner 
 got rid of her he gave her money a good deal. 
 She has changed her name, as you know, and has 
 in some mysterious way been able to go to Europe 
 or frequent our own summer resorts. Once, she 
 went abroad as a teacher with some Canadian girls. 
 You know how really accomplished she is. I am 
 sure that she is unscrupulous, but how criminal or 
 how far really dangerous I do not know. That is 
 my story and hers, and now what am I to do? If 
 she were not in the midst of my friends, if well, I 
 would let her alone. I ought to say that on my 
 first visit here she left town, I suppose to avoid 
 me. Now she is afraid to abandon her prey, is com- 
 fortable in a life of ease and even of luxury, and no 
 doubt making money. She had to face me this time 
 and either defy or cajole me. She acted with her 
 usual skill and courage, and came to see me." 
 
 ' ' Came to see you ? ' ' repeated Archer.
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 423 
 
 "Yes, to plead that I would not betray her. 
 Really, it was well done, wonderfully well. I made 
 no promises. How could I? Now I know more. 
 How, after that letter, can I hesitate ? Now, Sydney, 
 what must I do ? " 
 
 "A word or two before I reply. Of course, her 
 story was not true." 
 
 ' ' No ; she was the child of a Mexican picador who 
 had saved money. He came to San Francisco, spec- 
 ulated, and died poor. The stepmother also died. 
 The girl, then quite young, was admirably educated 
 in a convent school of French ladies of the Sacred 
 Heart. The boy, a baby, was put in an orphan asy- 
 lum. When about eighteen she ran away and got a 
 place as a teacher. About the boy I know little, 
 but she certainly did take care of him later, and he 
 is the one person she really ever cared for why, I 
 do not know. And now do not ask any more, and 
 again what am I to do?" 
 
 "You have no choice. You must tell your story 
 to Mr. Fairthorne." 
 
 "Would it answer? Is he in a fit state to under- 
 stand its force and me?" 
 
 "Perhaps not. How would it do to threaten her 
 that you will tell it? Fairthorne is breaking up. 
 His family will be justified in acting despotically. 
 She might fight, but how could she? I have myself 
 a matter to settle with her brother which will drive 
 him away and perhaps help to make her feel willing 
 to go. I think she will make some conditions and 
 give up." 
 
 "But if John Fairthorne is as you say, why not
 
 424 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 wait? He will die, and that will end it." Pilgrim 
 was elearly trying to find some mode of escape from 
 an unpleasant situation ; it was natural enough. 
 
 "I will tell you why; the old man is slowly fail- 
 ing, but he still has, as I have seen in these cases of 
 senile decay, his hours of clearness of head. He 
 may again change his will, and so change it as 
 seriously to affect his heirs and make a contest neces- 
 sary after his death. I fear this woman ; and, after 
 all, Fairthorne may live for months. Harry Swan- 
 wick is unwilling, perhaps wisely, to move in the 
 matter. Meanwhile, Miss Fairthorne is and will be 
 kept wretchedly unhappy." 
 
 "I see. I must do something. I go out to Edge- 
 wood on Saturday early. I shall have an hour or 
 two with Fairthorne, and between that and Monday 
 find my chance to talk with with Mrs. Hunter." 
 
 "I shall be at Grace's, Luke." 
 
 "Thank you; and now, as I am rather used up, I 
 will let you go. Good-bye. It is a relief to feel 
 that I can deal with the matter without having it 
 known to any one but you and her. She will show 
 fight, and I dread it. Good-bye." 
 
 When alone Pilgrim threw himself on the lounge. 
 "If," he thought, "the old cynic had been the only 
 one concerned I might have let things go their way, 
 or hers ; but Mary ! No ! ' ' He thought of the time 
 when, years before, he had come to know clearly that 
 he loved her. That his chance was worth something 
 he had begun to see. He had said then, "I must 
 not wait. She must know in time. ' ' He had frankly 
 said that he loved her, that he had hoped she, too,
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 425 
 
 would some day care for him, but that, as an honest 
 gentleman, he was bound to tell her that he had 
 been divorced, and that his wife was alive. Then 
 he had very plainly told the sad story of his young 
 life. 
 
 She had replied that whether or not she cared 
 enough for a man to be willing to marry him his 
 divorce would be an insurmountable objection. Yes, ^X 
 she knew him blameless, but this she never could 
 face. It was a matter of sentiment rather than of 
 principle. 
 
 He, too, had the sad conviction, being as sensitive 
 as she, that to marry a divorced woman with a hus- 
 band alive would have been as horrible to him. He -^ 
 accepted his defeat, and, remaining something more ^ 
 than friend, went his manly way through a lonely 
 life of distinction and usefulness. 
 
 Mary's letter to Archer had made up his mind for 
 him. She should suffer no longer. 
 
 ' ' Dear old Syd ! Did he know that I could read 
 between the lines of that letter? Ah, me, but life 
 is hard ! ' '
 
 XLII 
 
 1LGRIM had never been to Edgewood, 
 and was delighted with the colonial 
 home, with its vine-clad outbuildings, 
 much like those of the too famous house 
 in Fainnount Park to which Arnold 
 took his bride in days gone by. 
 
 Mary Fairthorne met him at the door. 
 "You are most welcome. Yes, my uncle is pretty 
 well, and blissfully happy over some autograph let- 
 ters of Gray to Mason. A new autograph always 
 arouses him. Come up. He wished to see you at 
 once. ' ' 
 
 Fairthorne had become thin, and too shrunken for 
 his clothes, but the outline of his handsome features 
 came out even the more distinctly for his loss of 
 flesh. 
 
 "Call Mrs. Hunter, Mary," he said. "Glad to 
 see you, Pilgrim. Lucretia knows all about these 
 lands. I want you to know her remarkable 
 woman!" 
 
 "Mrs. Hunter is out, uncle." 
 "Well, find her; send some one. I want you to 
 know her, Pilgrim." 
 
 She was not to be found. Fairthorne grumbled, 
 and then began to look over the engineer's maps, 
 426
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 427 
 
 while Pilgrim talked. Soon he failed to attend, and, 
 falling asleep, woke up as the voice of Pilgrim ceased 
 to explain. At last he said: 
 
 ''That will do. We need Lucretia. We will look 
 at these things again. Show Mr. Pilgrim the gar- 
 den, Mary." 
 
 Luke lunched with Mary Fairthorne, and after- 
 ward wandered off alone for a walk over the rolling 
 hills of Delaware County. Mrs. Hunter had a head- 
 ache, and did not appear all day. Archer rode over 
 from Grace's farm, and then through the May after- 
 noon with Miss Fairthorne, a happy man. 
 
 "Care leaves one on a good horse," he said, as 
 they crossed the bridge over Cobb's Creek. "I hope 
 it is as good a remedy for you." 
 
 "My cares are less easily dismissed," she returned. 
 "I have made up my mind this last week to go to 
 Long Branch. Mrs. Craycroft has taken rooms for 
 me. I cannot bear it any longer. ' ' 
 
 He hesitated as they rode on. 
 
 "You will pardon me, Miss Mary, but will you 
 leave your uncle alone with this woman?" 
 
 "He is that now. I am a cipher, outside of his 
 life." 
 
 "Will you trust me a little?" 
 
 "We have always trusted you." 
 
 "Not we you," he said. 
 
 "Yes, I do. What is it?" 
 
 "Do not leave him." 
 
 "I must. You do not know what you ask. " 
 
 "No." He leaned over and touched her hand. 
 "I ask you not to leave him, not now wait."
 
 428 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "You are very mysterious." 
 
 ' ' Perhaps ; but once you asked me not to give him 
 up. I obeyed you. There is nothing you can ask 
 that I would not do. Do not question me, but 
 silently trust me when I, in turn, say do not go 
 away. ' ' 
 
 "I will do as you say because well, because I 
 trust you." 
 
 "Could you not trust me always for life, Mary 
 Fairthorne?" 
 
 "That is rather long," she said, laughing. "The 
 spring is a time of promises. The summer might 
 find me changed. ' ' 
 
 "But not the winter," he said. 
 
 "I do not know. Give my mare a lead over that 
 hedge. Thanks ! ' ' she cried, as they galloped over 
 the turf of the old meadow-lands. She kept him off 
 the perilous subject, and they rode in at evening past 
 the gray stone church of St. David. 
 
 "See there," she said, stopping her horse. "Yon- 
 der lies Anthony Wayne. The little church is curi- 
 ous. You enter the organ-loft by a stone stair from 
 the outside. We shall go there to-morrow morning; 
 I play the organ. The place will interest you. It 
 is strange that you have never seen it." 
 
 "No; I have made visits of an hour to your uncle, 
 and back to town in haste. Miss Mary, I want to 
 have a talk alone with that woman with Mrs. Hun- 
 ter. How can I manage it?" 
 
 "She is apt to breakfast in her own room, and 
 then to smoke horrid cigarettes, now that she is care- 
 less as to what she does. About ten she joins my 
 uncle. On Sunday she is later."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 429 
 
 "If, then, Pilgrim and you and I walk to church, 
 and I leave you and return I may catch her?" 
 
 "Yes, very likely; but I want you to see the 
 church. It is well worth a visit. Why not see her 
 in the afternoon?" 
 
 "She will hide or get out of the way." 
 
 "That is not her custom." 
 
 "It will be what she will do." 
 
 "You are very mysterious again. What is going 
 to happen ? Oh, if it should be anything to get rid 
 of her I would" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Be so glad," said the girl. 
 
 "Then wait." 
 
 "On Sunday afternoon she takes a long walk, al- 
 ways alone." 
 
 "I shall see her in the morning. In the afternoon 
 we will look at the church. And now for a good 
 gallop." 
 
 At dinner Mrs. Hunter was still absent and suf- 
 fering. In the late evening Pilgrim learned from 
 Archer how the day was usually spent by Lucretia. 
 
 "If she stays up-stairs, " he said, "I shall remain 
 here until I get my chance, if it take a week." 
 
 After breakfast on this Sunday, Mary sent up to 
 ask if Mrs. Hunter were well enough to be with Mr. 
 Fairthorne, as they were all going to church. Mrs. 
 Hunter still had neuralgia, but as every one else was 
 to be out she would, of course, make the effort and 
 sit with Mr. Fairthorne. Mary handed the note to 
 Archer. 
 
 He left Pilgrim and Mary on the hill above St. 
 David's, went back to the house and at once up to
 
 430 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 the library. Mrs. Hunter was reading aloud the 
 life of Alexander Hamilton. She read well. 
 
 "Ah!" said Archer. "Glad to see you up." 
 
 She rose as he entered. She was watchful, and 
 evidently uneasy at his return. 
 
 "Will you give me a few minutes?" he said, in a 
 low tone. 
 
 ' ' I cannot leave Mr. Fairthorne. ' ' 
 
 "You must, or you will regret it, for your bro- 
 ther's sake." 
 
 She made an excuse and went after him, saying 
 she would soon return. 
 
 "Where can we talk?" he said. 
 
 "In my sitting-room." He followed her. "Will 
 you have a cigarette ? ' ' she asked, coolly. 
 
 "No. Sit down." 
 
 ' ' You said my brother Lionel. What is it ? " She 
 spoke very quickly, and fairly concealed her anx- 
 iety. 
 
 "Mrs. Hunter, your brother told you that he had 
 seen Mr. Grace at Carlisle intoxicated. You told 
 him to hold his tongue about it. He did not. He 
 wrote Mr. Grace an anonymous threat of exposure. 
 It was madness to try this with him, of all men. In 
 reply Grace sent a check to order in a letter. Your 
 brother is known to have taken it out of the office 
 and drawn it. This is blackmail, and means, if a 
 warrant be served, the penitentiary. Mr. Grace is a 
 merciful man. To arrest and try Mr. Craig would 
 ruin him forever." Here he stopped. 
 
 "Why did he not come himself?" She was sus- 
 picious. "Did he send you?"
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 431 
 
 "Mrs. Hunter, I did not come here to be ques- 
 tioned. If by Tuesday next that money is not re- 
 turned and your brother has not written to confess 
 that he had tried to blackmail, the question of more 
 kindly dealing with a weak young man may be closed. 
 If you are wise you will oblige him to do what I have 
 suggested." He meant, if he failed, to go boldly 
 to Grace and insist that he face a matter already 
 known to four people, and perhaps to many. Lu- 
 cretia met this attack with her usual courage. 
 
 "Will you swear," she said, "that this story is 
 true?" 
 
 "No; I have said it was true. Accept it or not, 
 I have done. ' ' 
 
 "Why did you or Mr. Grace not go directly to my 
 brother about it?" 
 
 "Go to a drunken, conceited fool a man not to 
 be trusted for a day? No. That would be folly." 
 
 Then the woman broke down. She put her head 
 in her hands, and, it is to be hoped, cried. She 
 cared nothing for the sin and little for the shame of 
 it. Neither, as such, disturbed her. She could have 
 done, at need, worse things and felt no qualm, but 
 through much of her life she had been struggling 
 to keep this weakling straight, proud of his doll- 
 like beauty, hoping always that he was about to be 
 what he never could be. Was it love, or pride, or 
 the fact of his long dependence upon her that made 
 his life and acts so bitter ? 
 
 A few moments went by in silence. She looked 
 up, saying: 
 
 " I am beaten. You have your revenge. ' ' S
 
 432 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "It is not revenge. I suppose that were I to 
 tell you I am sorry for you" and he was sorry 
 "you would not believe me." 
 
 "I would not, I do not, and I do not care. There 
 is something in it not clear to me. The only thing 
 I do believe is that you could not find him, and so 
 fall back on me." 
 
 "You are not as shrewd as usual, Mrs. Hunter. I 
 give you my word that no effort will be made to fol- 
 low or to trap him if that confession be written 
 promptly and the money returned." 
 
 "You shall have both. I said I was beaten. I 
 am, but I promise you not to forget, and if I can 
 ever repay you it shall be done, and with interest." 
 
 "Thank you. Kindly send the letter to me, South 
 Thirteenth Street, you know the address." With 
 these words he rose and left her. 
 
 She closed the door, and sat at the open window, 
 deep in thought. It was a terrible reckoning. 
 
 "They do not want this to get out, but that 
 does n't help matters. As between being bled for 
 years or having a paragraph in some blackguard 
 paper, they will choose the last, of course. Any 
 one would. Should I care if some one said I took 
 too much champagne? Lionel must go, Heaven 
 knows where! He can't fight Roger Grace. Oh, 
 what an idiot, to be trapped like this! Why 
 could n't he have waited a few months? I could 
 have gotten anything out of John Pairthorne, but 
 if if they use this letter I am lost. I never thought 
 of that. Why does n't this tiresome old man step 
 out? Lord! That would make my money pretty
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 433 
 
 certain, and mourning is so becoming to me. Ah. 
 my brother ! I have too many things to think about. 
 If it were only one at a time, but Luke Luke. He 
 goes to-morrow. Well, well, that will be one relief ! 
 He is very handsome, but about as great a fool as 
 ever, and as shy of me as I am of him. ' ' 
 
 As usual, her meditations ended in some practical 
 way. It was Sunday. She would take her usual 
 afternoon walk, for nothing was allowed to interfere 
 with the exercise by which she kept a very sound 
 body in perfect health. Just before dinner she 
 would go to the city, and thus escape meeting Pil- 
 grim. She must see her brother at once, and must 
 feel secure about him, for now it seemed clear to 
 her that if this blackmail matter should become pub- 
 lic, and Lionel be arrested and tried, her own posi- 
 tion would be untenable. Yet, to be just to a self- 
 ful character, less purely personal motives were 
 uppermost in her mind, and she had no scheme of an 
 unfettered life which did not involve the dream of 
 more respectability for Lionel than was compatible 
 with her own ideal of an existence away from these 
 sedate, reputable people, with their unquestioning 
 beliefs in themselves and their ancestors, of whom 
 they said nothing and thought much. 
 
 For once Kitty had hidden her doings, and the 
 day after her confession to Knellwood had decided 
 to spend a few days at Chestnut Hill with one of 
 the many young women she labeled ' ' friend. ' ' Her 
 discontent, her recoil into shame, her general dis- 
 satisfaction with what she called life were all help- 
 ful to Mrs. Hunter's schemes. But of late this stage
 
 434 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 manager had been too anxious to attend with equal 
 care to all her puppets. Just now the showman 
 Fate was relentlessly pulling the wires, and she, too, 
 must dance, whether she would or not. 
 
 On the other hand, she had a bank account which 
 would have surprised the heirs of John Fairthorne. 
 Even in her present anxiety she smiled to think of 
 it. If only she were secure of that codicil! Then 
 there would be Paris and the slack society of the 
 Riviera, or later Cairo and all manner of agreeable 
 chances, other preserves and other game, with 
 Kitty's income to pay the bills, for in a year or 
 less she would have control of the well-managed 
 accumulations of a long minority. 
 
 Lucretia's power to set aside care was remarkable ; 
 her belief in her resources self-satisfying. Twice on 
 this Sunday morning she had been summoned to 
 Mr. Fairthorne, and had allowed him to await her 
 pleasure. At last she went down-stairs, fanning 
 herself and humming a Spanish song. The day was 
 warm and the atmosphere heavy. Mr. Fairthorne 
 gave up his intention to lunch with his guests, and 
 insisted, to the secretary's satisfaction, that she 
 should share his meal in the library. There were 
 others as well pleased. 
 
 Lucretia was never more agreeable. She talked 
 of Mexico and bull-fights, told the old man gay stories, 
 and, alas ! it was the Sabbath or she could sing for 
 him, but "Oh!" she gaily pointed down-stairs, "I 
 should oh, I should be socially excommunicated!" 
 Some day when they were alone she would dance, 
 just a little, a sketch of the real dance. He was de- 
 lighted and cheerful.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 435 
 
 After the luncheon they went out on the wide 
 upper porch. She arranged his reclining chair and 
 cushions with a display of tender care. 
 
 "Sing for me," he said. 
 
 ' ' Oh, no ! Not now, sir. ' ' She heard the broken 
 hum of voices on the veranda below them. 
 
 "Sing," he said, "don't you hear me?" He was 
 like a spoiled child. 
 
 "I cannot, Mr. Fairthorne. Indeed, I cannot. I 
 never should hear the last of it." 
 
 "What is that to me? Do as I tell you. You have 
 talked of this sort of thing so long that I am 
 curious." 
 
 Lucretia stood up, a queer gleam in her eyes, a 
 sense of joy at the freedom of an open door of reck- 
 less self-abandonment. As she would have said in 
 other company, she let herself go. ' ' Oh, you naughty 
 man!" she cried, smiling, and, curtsying low, fell 
 back a little and began to dance with slow move- 
 ments and sway of body eminently graceful. Then 
 she began to snap her fingers, and, in a low voice, 
 to sing a love song of the muleteers of the Sierras. 
 
 By degrees, enjoying the performance, she was 
 swept away on the current of her mood. The cas- 
 tanets rang out, the dance movement grew quicker, 
 with growing pleasure she gave way to the tempta- 
 tion of utter unrestraint, and with wild laughter let 
 her voice out to its full compass. 
 
 As she paused a breathless moment, the old man 
 cried "Brava!" and clapped applause. 
 
 On the porch beneath them sat Pilgrim and Archer 
 smoking. The engineer was of no mind to talk, and 
 Archer respected his disinclination. At last Pilgrim
 
 436 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 spoke, as the song rang out overhead. "What a 
 strange voice she has, so distinct, so entirely true. 
 Listen ! Do you know what she is singing, Archer ? ' ' 
 
 "No." 
 
 "As well not. And in this house! It is intoler- 
 able, Sydney. I shall go to my room; I have let- 
 ters to write. Let me know when she goes out. ' ' 
 
 "I will." 
 
 He paused for a moment listening, caught in 
 
 JF the meshes of a distant memory. The songs were 
 
 & not all evil. As he lingered, she was singing the lay 
 
 / g the Mexican fishermen's wives sing to their children 
 
 when the boats are coming laden to shore. He had 
 
 heard it when she sat by his side, and kept time with 
 
 her fan as she cooled his fever long ago, when she 
 
 was for him an innocent girl who had risked her all 
 
 for his love. He turned away, and went up-stairs. 
 
 After his friend left him Archer sat still on the 
 porch. The music overhead ceased, and the hours 
 of a sultry afternoon went by. He had much to 
 occupy him. Unless he failed, he should have done 
 Grace a material service, and it was pleasant to feel 
 that the banker need not know who did it. Also, there 
 were more things to think of, things still set about 
 with doubts. The hours slipped away. At length he 
 saw Mrs. Hunter at a distance, walking rapidly. 
 She had gone out of a side door and escaped his 
 watch. He made haste to find Pilgrim. 
 
 "Mrs. Hunter has gone out. I missed her. If 
 you go at once you will overtake her on the road. If 
 you do not or miss her, you had better return and 
 wait in the churchyard. She is sure, I learn, to
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 437 
 
 come home that way; otherwise she must go miles 
 around to get back, and it is late. She walks very 
 fast. ' ' 
 
 Pilgrim said not a word. As he went out, Archer 
 called after him : 
 
 "It looks a little as though we might have a thun- 
 der-storm." 
 
 Pilgrim hastened on, making no reply, eager to get 
 it all over. Archer returned to the veranda. Then 
 Miss Fairthorne came down all in white. 
 
 "Mr. Pilgrim is off alone, I see. I thought we 
 might have had him with us." 
 
 "No. Which way shall we go, Miss Mary?" 
 
 "Oh, over the creek, across the fields. There is a 
 view I want you to see. It looks rather threatening, 
 does n't it? But you really must see St. David's; 
 we need not be long ; we will come back that way. ' ' 
 
 "It will not rain," he said, decidedly. He was 
 by no means sure. As for St. David's well, Luke 
 would in his evident haste be sure to overtake Lu- 
 cretia. They would not come in his way. He was 
 too anxious to give it more thought, only seeing that 
 the sky was already clearing again. 
 
 They went away through the first roses of the old- 
 fashioned garden rather silent, now and then letting 
 fall a phrase. He was doubly distracted by the 
 thought of Pilgrim and by what he himself meant 
 to say to the girl at his side. She, aware of some- 
 thing unusual in the man, tried in vain to lead the 
 talk into by-roads of the commonplace, wished her- 
 self at home, and was conscious of danger and of 
 happiness.
 
 438 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 She led him beside the fields of spring wheat, 
 over rolling uplands and by forest ways to a hill- 
 top, where they overlooked the peaceful vales and, 
 not far away, the gray church among the graves. 
 It was near to sunset, and the doubtful storm-clouds 
 were changefully driven across the western sky. As 
 they stood, he said : 
 
 "How very still it is here, and what tumult 
 there." As he spoke the darkening cloud-curtains 
 slowly parted, and in a minute there was between 
 them a vast flare of crimson. 
 
 Mary's pleasure at this wonder of color showed 
 in the look of joyful interest which possessed her 
 face. 
 
 "How can people fear the lightning and thunder 
 of a storm? When there is such a royal blazoning 
 in the heavens one would expect some triumphant 
 sound. A great sunset brings to me a feeling of 
 expectancy of something about to happen. ' ' 
 
 "That is what I feel at daybreak," he returned. 
 "Not now, not here." 
 
 The cloud-curtain closed in gray-green masses, 
 and as she spoke a lance of lightning darted across 
 the blackness and, as it were, shivered into splinters 
 of violet light. Instantly a thunderous peal rolled 
 resonant among the peaks and abysses of the vast 
 mountain cloudland. 
 
 "You have your wish," he cried, "and more," for 
 the great rain-drops began to fall. 
 
 "Come," she answered, laughing; "as a weather- 
 prophet I will none of you in future. We can 
 reach the church in time perhaps." At first she
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 439 
 
 thought of a cottage not far away, but the church 
 was nearer, and at all events she was glad of the 
 need for quick movement. She led the way, walk- 
 ing swiftly. The rain fell faster. 
 
 ' ' This way, ' ' she called to him, as they crossed the 
 graveyard. ''The stairs to the organ-loft are shel- 
 tered." 
 
 "We are just in time," he said, and, merry over 
 their escape, they sat down on the stone stairway 
 under cover, while the rain fell in torrents. Except 
 for a word now and then they remained silent. He 
 was intent on the face of the woman. Once he 
 spoke of the dance of the leaves as the drops fell 
 upon them. She made no reply, save to look at him 
 and to nod, smiling. 
 
 She had wholesome pleasure in what she saw as 
 they looked out from the over-arched stair, and fear- 
 lessly enjoyed the drama of a summer storm. Mean- 
 while, the fast-coming clouds made a sudden twi- 
 light. Little gusts of wind fell here and there, and 
 shook the spring leafage. Then a greater wind 
 swooped down with patter of driven drops aslant on 
 the gravestones, as the storm breath swayed the gray 
 columns of rain. 
 
 Archer respected her wish to be silent in the pres- 
 ence of these elemental forces. 
 
 "Where," he thought, "can Pilgrim be and Mrs. 
 Hunter?" 
 
 Presently she spoke. 
 
 "I never want to talk when we have these great 
 storms. It seems irreverent." 
 
 "I, too, have the desire to be still during a tern-
 
 440 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 pest. It is so terribly suggestive of unused power. 
 I think it will soon be over." 
 
 "Yes," she said, "the storm is nearly past. The 
 rain has stopped. Let us go." 
 
 She rose and went down the stair and out into the 
 glory of the second twilight, for now the clouds, 
 piled in dim masses above the fallen sun, set free a 
 glow of orange light to glorify the glistening earth. 
 
 "Is not that," she said, "a thing to remember?" 
 
 "Surely, I shall not forget it." 
 
 "Before we go, will you please to find my fan 
 for me ? I left it this morning in the organ-loft, on 
 a stool to the left. Here is the key. Be careful; 
 there is a step down, and it must be dark. I will 
 wait for you here." 
 
 Archer took the key and went up the stone stair 
 which led, and still leads, from outside to the gal- 
 lery. It was very dark and he had to move with 
 care. He found the fan, and then something hap- 
 pened. He stood amazed. 
 
 When Pilgrim left the house of the Fairthornes 
 Mrs. Hunter was out of sight, and, in his ignorance 
 of the country, the engineer concluded to follow 
 Archer's advice. He therefore went within the 
 churchyard gate and waited. After fully an hour 
 he saw Mrs. Hunter descending the hill. She must 
 pass close by him. He stepped back a little and 
 waited, not conscious for the time of the gathered 
 storm. There was a vivid flash of light and a quick 
 following crash of thunder. He heard Mrs. Hun- 
 ter's exclamation of terror, and remembered her 
 alarm at lightning. The rain fell in large drops.
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 441 
 
 "This way," he said, as she turned in at the gate, 
 not seeing him. 
 
 "Ah!" she cried; "you here?" 
 
 "This way, this way," he repeated. "Perhaps 
 the church may be open." 
 
 "No," she said; "I will go on. There are worse 
 things than a storm." 
 
 He caught her wrist. 
 
 "I came here," he said, "to have a talk with you. 
 I mean to have it, if I have to force you to stay. ' ' 
 
 Another blinding fire-bolt crossed the darken- 
 ing sky. 
 
 "Madre de Dios!" she cried. "Anywhere any- 
 where ! ' ' 
 
 He tried the church door. It yielded, and they 
 went in. 
 
 "Sit down." 
 
 She sat down on a bench at the back of the little 
 church, now in twilight gloom. 
 
 " If I must, I must. What is it 1 " 
 
 He stood before her, and for a brief moment was 
 still. 
 
 "When we last met you asked me not to speak of 
 you and of your life to these people, my friends. ' ' 
 
 "You promised. Do you mean to speak now?" 
 
 "I did not promise. Since then I have learned 
 more than enough to make it my duty to see that 
 they know you as I know you." 
 
 "Your duty!" she cried. "I like that! Your 
 pleasure, you mean." 
 
 "I do not mean to have a contest of words with 
 you. Listen ! I will not say to Mr. Fairthorne or to
 
 442 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 Miss Fairthorne one word about you if you will go 
 away, not to return. ' ' 
 
 "And if not?" 
 
 "Well, if not, I will tell them all." 
 
 "All what? Do you think he will care? Non- 
 sense! He would laugh at you." 
 
 "Very good. There is my marriage, a forged let- 
 ter, the life at Tahiti, the pleasant wreck of those 
 kindly people in Montreal, the oh ! there is more 
 of it and worse. Do you think the Swan wicks and 
 Miss Fairthorne would leave you here a day after 
 I have told my story? They would simply turn 
 you out. Fairthorne would be made to yield. You 
 would lose your money. Oh, at need, I will make it 
 public. You must go ! " 
 
 Lucretia would have given much for time to re- 
 flect, to decide. The man was coldly implacable. 
 
 "Let me think of it," she said. 
 
 "Not a minute. Yes or no go or stay?" 
 
 "You are hard, cruel." He made no comment. 
 She was dreadfully in doubt. If she stayed, all was 
 lost. Even the codicil might, as Archer had said, 
 be called in question. If she left, the family, on their 
 uncle's death, might not disturb or dispute it. Per- 
 haps they would think her absence cheaply bought. 
 And there was Lionel, too. As she resolutely took 
 time to think he stood in silence. The rain tram- 
 pled on the roof overhead, and vivid flashes at times 
 lighted up the darkening interior. 
 
 "If I go," she asked, "will they dispute what he 
 has left me? I earned it honestly earned it." 
 
 He smiled as he answered : " I think they will not
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 443 
 
 dispute it, but I can make no promises for other- 
 people, or for John Fairthorne. But go you must, 
 or I shall speak out this evening, and most freely." 
 
 " If I go, how long will you give me ? My brother 
 is in trouble. If I go to the city as if for a time, 
 and then 
 
 "No, you leave the city. As to how long you 
 may stay here you asked that, I think?" 
 
 "I did. Give me a week." 
 
 He made a sort of compromise. "To-day is Sun- 
 day. On Wednesday you go. ' ' 
 
 "I will go on Wednesday." As she spoke she 
 rose. It was too much, first Archer and then this 
 man. She stood still, helpless, beaten, and raging 
 with anger fed by deadliest hate. She longed to 
 strike him. He stood still, watching her. 
 
 At last he said quietly, "That is all. And now I 
 shall leave you." 
 
 "No, it is not all." Her voice rose shrill and 
 high in anger. "You have driven me out, and 
 never " 
 
 ' ' Hush ! " he said. ' ' Hush, I hear some one. ' ' 
 
 In the brief time of their silence Archer had 
 found the fan. As Lucretia's voice rang out he 
 stopped, astonished. Amid the roar of the rain he 
 had heard slight noises below him, but thought it 
 some sexton or other caretaker. 
 
 Lucretia mocked at the warning. 
 
 "Why should I hush ? " It was rare with her that 
 wrath routed prudence. "Oh! You order me to 
 go ! As if I did not know why. You are more of a 
 fool than you were as a boy."
 
 444 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Have you no sense? There is some one" 
 
 "What is that to me? You don't get off that 
 way. I will tell you why you want me out of that 
 house. It would be rather awkward to make love to 
 another woman with your dear, divorced wife in the 
 same house." 
 
 "Do not dare to speak of her." He turned to go. 
 She caught his arm. Without violence he could not 
 release himself. 
 
 "Oh, that hurt you, did it ? She will never marry 
 you. I saw her diary. It was entertaining ; rather 
 careless, was n't it? I am now her confidante; it 
 would surprise her. She is in love with the other 
 man. Do you hear? with the other man. Archer 
 will cut you out. I suppose he will some day have 
 the courage to ask her. Now, you may go. Advise 
 him to write to her. Some women are very yielding 
 on paper, and it is so nice to help one's friends." 
 She laughed savagely. "I always did love to ,do 
 things for you." 
 
 "I ought to have strangled you long ago," he said, 
 and went out where the unveiled glow of the sunset 
 lay on the early leafage and the gray tombstones. 
 He walked away, across the graves and over the 
 fields. 
 
 The woman waited alone, and, hearing Archer in 
 the organ-loft, thought: 
 
 "There was some one. I must go. Three days- 
 well, I made him uncomfortable. It was foolish, 
 reckless, but how he hated it ! If I were sure about 
 that codicil, I should not care. He will keep his 
 word; he always did."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 445 
 
 She followed him through the graveyard and up 
 the hill a mile or more to Edge wood. There, some- 
 what later, she saw Miss Fairthorne, and said she 
 was going to the city at once, as she had an ap- 
 pointment with her brother. She would return 
 next day. 
 
 Archer went slowly down the steps, out of the 
 organ-loft, to where Miss Fairthorne was standing 
 in the lessening sunset light, "a daughter of the 
 gods, divinely tall and most divinely fair." 
 
 "Thank you," she said. "I saw Mrs. Hunter go 
 by. I wonder where she took refuge. How beauti- 
 ful it is ! I love this old church. Here is Anthony 
 Wayne's tombstone, and there are some of the un- 
 known dead who died at Paoli in the fight." They 
 went to and fro, reading the love, the lies, the fool- 
 ishness on the gray slabs, interested as we all are to 
 see what the living have written of the dead. 
 
 They paused just within the gateway, as he said, 
 looking back: "How like the little church is to one 
 near our southern home." 
 
 "Have you heard from home lately?" she asked, 
 and went on to inquire as to his own people, of the 
 brother now at the University of Virginia, of the 
 cousins who had at last consented to forgive his 
 loyalty to his country. She knew how freely he had 
 helped them when the means of helpfulness had been 
 found at the cost of much privation. She was not 
 beyond being influenced by the appearance of the 
 physical man. As Archer moved ahead of her and 
 turned, she felt a certain satisfaction in his well-knit 
 figure, the look of strength in face and form, as of a
 
 446 flECUM STANCE 
 
 man who owned and was master of himself in mind 
 and muscle. 
 
 "Do you ever record your thoughts?" he said, 
 rather abruptly. 
 
 ' ' Sometimes. What a curious question ! Why do 
 you ask?" 
 
 "Why you, yourself, asked me just now as we sat 
 on the stairway if I kept note-books, and how thought 
 about scientific questions matured how it was dealt 
 with. I said I had to think on paper. I wanted to 
 know if this were true of you. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I keep a diary. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Indeed ! What gets into it ? " 
 
 "Many things notes about books, remarks, who 
 dine with us, all kind of trifles." 
 
 "Do you ever set down your opinions of people?" 
 
 "Yes; Mrs. Hunter's biographer would be en- 
 lightened. I wrote to-day that you had been mys- 
 terious. ' ' 
 
 "Ah, then I do get in sometimes. Do you ever 
 write of yourself?" 
 
 "Rarely. Not of ten sometimes. " 
 
 "Do you find, as I do, that to state a problem 
 on paper is the best way to approach it?" 
 
 ' ' I have no such problems. ' ' 
 
 "I have one now." 
 
 "I am bad at problems. They are very disap- 
 pointing. I hate them." 
 
 "But suppose you were ever to well, to like a 
 man, would you write about it in your diary, and 
 would it help you to decide?" 
 
 "It might, if I were ever in so sad a state."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 447 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "I should like to know if ever by chance I have 
 the honor to be in that diary." 
 
 "Certainly when you dine with us." 
 
 "And nobody ever sees it?" 
 
 "No one. I keep it locked." 
 
 "Suppose I were to guess a little as to what is 
 in it?" 
 
 She colored slightly: "If you knew, I should 
 deny it." 
 
 "Ah, Miss Mary, it is your heart I should like 
 to read." 
 
 "It is uncertain, variable, not worth reading." 
 
 "Well, then, your diary. Let us try. One day 
 you wrote that you did care for a man. Oh, you 
 put it more plainly than I dare to put it. Mary 
 Fairthorne, he is here here at your side. He has 
 long loved you. Will you let him go on alone, with- 
 out you ? ' ' 
 
 She was looking down as he spoke, and for a 
 moment was silent. Then she said : 
 
 "I knew this would come. I have feared it for 
 you, for myself." 
 
 "Was it only fear, Mary?" 
 
 "No." She walked on, not speaking. 
 
 "I have had a rather hard life, you know that; 
 but not even my break with friends, my family, my 
 home, in the war days, ever hurt as one little word 
 from you will hurt." 
 
 "I shall never say it." 
 
 "That is not enough." 
 
 "But will you not wait?"
 
 448 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "No, not now." 
 
 "But if I am not sure? I really am not sure." 
 
 "We cannot leave it in this way. How can I 
 make you more certain? You will never know me 
 better." 
 
 She moved on without looking at him, saying: 
 ' ' Come away from these tombs. ' ' 
 
 He followed her as they passed out into the 
 road. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I want my answer, Mary." 
 
 "I think I love you," she said, turning a grave 
 face to him. 
 
 He leaned over and gently lifted and kissed her 
 hand. Then she knew, and said : 
 
 "I think I know that I love you, Sydney." 
 
 "Say it, Mary." 
 
 "I love you," she repeated timidly, and among the 
 gathering shadows they went up the hill in the faith 
 of love's fresh childhood, hand in hand. 
 
 "God bless you, dear," he said, and she went up 
 to her room. 
 
 In the evening, after dinner, the two men strolled 
 about in the brick walks of the garden, between the 
 high rows of clipped box. Here, omitting all that 
 was personal to either himself or his friend, Pilgrim 
 told him of what had passed in the church that 
 afternoon. 
 
 "And now," he added, "you will be quit of this 
 plague. I wish I could as easily blot her from my 
 own life. She will go, and no one here will know 
 why. I shall say good-bye to the Swanwicks and 
 wander abroad. If my chest threatens me with trou-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 449 
 
 ble I shall go to Egypt for the winter, as you de- 
 sired." 
 
 1 'You will have no trouble," said Archer; "you 
 are as well as a man can be. ' ' 
 
 "And now," said Pilgrim, "as you condemn me 
 to early hours, I shall say good night to Miss Mary 
 and so to bed. I feel as if I had had an illness. 
 No, I have no pain. I am merely used up for the 
 time." 
 
 Sydney went out on the porch and waited, reflect- 
 ing, as he walked up and down, on the harsh pun- 
 ishment life provided for a man who, in the chivalry 
 of a young man's love, had wrecked his fortunes 
 and his life to guard a woman's honor. He realized 
 the horror with which a refined nature must by de- 
 grees have discovered the true personality of this 
 attractive woman. He tried to put himself in Pil- 
 grim's place. It was a game of which, as a student 
 of his kind, he was fond. 
 
 "Ah, I should have killed the man! Why did 
 he not?" There seemed to him to be here some- 
 thing about his friend which he could not under- 
 stand. 
 
 "I hope this patience," said Mary, when she ap- 
 peared, "is a good promise of what you will have 
 need of. Uncle John sent for me. He was in pain ; 
 now he is better and asleep." 
 
 What they said does not concern us here. It has 
 been said before, and will be many times again. The 
 man had come by degrees through friendship to 
 love. The woman, long in doubt, was now in the 
 bewilderment of one suddenly come ashore in a 
 
 29
 
 460 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 new land. Fear, a gentle fear, interest, a new 
 tongue to learn, were all hers. 
 
 "I thought once, Sydney," she said, "I mean I 
 was afraid, that you were to be one of Kitty's cap- 
 tives. I did not like it. I suppose that was a form 
 of jealousy. I do not think I knew why it troubled 
 me. Was it love? Love in its infancy must be in- 
 geniously prophetic. I am jealous yet." 
 
 "I should not be the man I want you to think me 
 if I simply put that aside. Miss Kitty is a perilous 
 person. She likes the pursuit, the game, not the 
 final object of the game a woman to whose eyes it 
 is hard to say no, a woman whom to know more 
 nearly is to pity, and at last to fear. I never felt 
 for her more than that attraction which many have 
 felt. I like to feel that all the past is clear between 
 you and me. Is it not ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes. To a woman like me, Kitty is an enigma. 
 Margaret says no, that I manufacture enigmas, and 
 that Kitty is simple." 
 
 "Let us drop Miss Kitty. When you came out I 
 was thinking of a man I know whose life has been 
 unhappy. I was trying to explain him to my own 
 mind, to realize him. I used to think him also sim- 
 ple, and in a way he is. ' ' 
 
 "Well, forget him too, Sydney. You ought to be 
 ashamed to have been thinking of any one but Mary 
 Fairthorne. I sometimes think no one is simple. I 
 know that in a few hours I am become dreadfully 
 complex. ' ' 
 
 "I think," he returned, "that I, on the other hand, 
 find myself simplified. I have good news for you. ' '
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 451 
 
 "As good as to-day's?" she said, in a low tone. 
 "Or was it so very good, the news I gave you?" 
 
 "Ah, not like that. But good, worth well, I 
 am generous, Mary ; I make no bargains. You shall 
 name the honorarium. ' ' 
 
 "Please to tell me." 
 
 "Mrs. Hunter will depart on Wednesday, and 
 go, never to come back. ' ' 
 
 "Mrs. Hunter! Go! Impossible, Sydney. My 
 uncle will never, never let her go. And why does 
 she want to go ? " 
 
 "She must go." 
 
 "But why? Do tell me." 
 
 "I am not free to tell you, but go she will." 
 
 "Now, this was why you were so mysterious, but 
 is it can it be true?" 
 
 "Yes; but why she goes you may never know. 
 It is not my secret. As for your uncle, she will, 
 I fancy, make excuses and write to him, and, for 
 very good reasons, try to keep him in a good hu- 
 mor. But of this rest assured she will never come 
 back. ' ' 
 
 "Thank God!" she said. "Oh, Sydney, no one 
 knows what this winter has been to me, no one ! ' ' 
 
 "My dear love, are you crying?" She was sob- 
 bing like a child. 
 
 ' ' Tears of thankfulness ! ' ' she said. ' ' I have gone 
 through so much so much ! And I am so, so happy. 
 Let me be quiet a little. Don't speak to me." He 
 was silent, respectful of her mood, until she said: 
 "There, you see what a child I can be, how foolish, 
 how weak!"
 
 452 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "There is weakness one could ill spare," he re- 
 turned. 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "And my honorarium?" he said. 
 
 "Oh, not for that that woman." 
 
 "Well, not for that. I want those dear lips to 
 speak to me, to mine." 
 
 She blushed red, under the masking darkness of 
 the night, but paid him honestly. 
 
 They talked far into the night, and, as she rose, 
 he said: "I will walk over to Grace's now, and go 
 to town early to-morrow. I shall see Mrs. Swan- 
 wick some time during the day. May I tell her?" 
 
 "Yes, and the little ladies, our dear white mice, 
 and your mother, of course, you will write, Syd- 
 ney. No one else just now. I shall say nothing to 
 uncle until that woman goes if she goes. It is too 
 good to be true." 
 
 "She will, and now I must go." 
 
 When, on this Sunday night, Mrs. Hunter set foot 
 in the city she had two errands; one was easy, and 
 concerning the other she had the indecision of a 
 woman who, having been more than once on the 
 verge of serious crime, had always drawn back in 
 the dread of consequences. 
 
 In the exaltation of alcohol, now an habitual indul- 
 gence, and, too, under the pressure of debt, Craig 
 had written the letter to Grace. It was no sooner 
 sent than he fell into the clutches of fear, and stayed 
 away from the office, declaring that he was ill. His 
 fears had not been lessened by Blount's visit. 
 
 He was out when Mrs. Hunter called on this Sun-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 453 
 
 day evening. She took a room for the night, and 
 sat down in his untidy apartment to wait for 
 him. When she had decided on action she was apt 
 to become impatient. She remained quiet for a 
 while, and then walked to and fro, sat down again, 
 and saw the hours go by, while she thought of this 
 reckless brother or turned to think of the graver 
 matter which so much concerned her. 
 
 Meanwhile Lionel, who had kept his room all day, 
 was glad of the cover of darkness, and ventured out 
 to wander from one bar-room to another, on the way 
 to make more mischief and to be the ignorant, indi- 
 rect cause of good. 
 
 Martin Blount was now living with Grace at his 
 farm. It was from a strong feeling of loyalty, and 
 with reluctance, that he had given up the self-sup- 
 port his clerkship offered. Now, reassured by 
 Archer and by what he saw of Grace 's ordered life, 
 he began to regret his action. But Archer was very 
 busy, and the laboratory work was important and 
 interesting. He could not at present abandon it. 
 Archer had asked him, at last, to take entire charge, 
 for the time, of the mere mechanical labor which at 
 this stage of the investigation was such as Blount 
 could readily manage. To aid his labor, Archer wrote 
 out with care the needed directions, and, Grace con- 
 senting to spare the young man for a week from his 
 work of cataloguing, Martin determined to remain 
 for that time in the city. Archer was glad of the re- 
 lief. He was not himself in a condition of mind to 
 give to experimental work that incessant thought 
 which is one of the essential elements of success. He
 
 454 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 was about to conduct a far more absorbing inves- 
 tigation. 
 
 When Blount had arranged to his satisfaction for 
 a week's stay at Miss Markham's, and had received 
 Archer's final instructions, he naturally inquired 
 concerning Mrs. Hunter. Archer said it was a long 
 matter, and was so plainly preoccupied that Blount, 
 who was slowly acquiring social wisdom, felt that 
 he had better await a less busy hour. 
 
 On this Sunday, while Lucretia waited for her 
 brother, Martin, having finished some needed labora- 
 tory work, at evening returned to Miss Markham's 
 for supper. The ladies still adhered to the old 
 custom of a midday dinner on Sunday. After sup- 
 per he went up with Knellwood to Grace's library 
 and was soon deep in eager talk of the lands 
 Knellwood was about to visit, or had already seen 
 when a lad. The younger man, in turn, spoke of 
 Vienna, and how he must get a year there, when he 
 had been graduated. He was already learning 
 German. 
 
 "And then," said Knellwood, "after that 
 what?" 
 
 "Oh, I shall settle here or in New York. I shall 
 get on." He was confident. 
 
 "And of course a professorship." said the rector, 
 amused at an assurance which smiled at fate and took 
 no account of circumstance. 
 
 He himself lacked this absolute trust in his own 
 will, even in his own moral nature, and was now 
 about to flee like a bird scared at the net of the 
 fowler.
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 455 
 
 "Well, Martin," he said, "it is pleasant to see a 
 fellow so securely confident of success; and yet, life 
 will as like as not refuse what you expect to get, and 
 give what you never dreamed of getting." 
 
 Martin looked at the speaker in some surprise. 
 He had himself had hard work, but he had never 
 failed to win what he wanted. Perhaps the note of 
 sadness in the rector's voice made him ask with his 
 occasional indiscreet directness: "Have you ever 
 failed to get what you wanted ? ' ' 
 
 Knell wood smiled. "No, not to get what I wanted, 
 but rather to be what I want to be." 
 
 ' ' Oh, but that 's in a man 's own power. A fellow 
 can always manage that. ' ' 
 
 "Can he, indeed ! I hope that you may always be 
 able to say that." 
 
 The talk soon fell upon English cathedrals, and 
 the rector had a happy listener. 
 
 A little later Lionel Craig, reeking with tobacco 
 and in the exuberant stage of alcoholic confidence, 
 rang a double peal at Miss Markham's door. Why 
 he went thither it would have puzzled him to say. 
 The next day he hazily recalled having had some- 
 thing very important to say to somebody. Blount 
 must have been associated in his mind with the house. 
 He certainly had no desire to see him when he him- 
 self was in control of the small amount of wits 
 with which nature in a sparing mood had endowed 
 him. 
 
 "Mr. Blount at home?" he asked. "You say 
 I 'm here. Want to see him." He went past the 
 old black woman whom his violent pull at the bell
 
 456 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 had aroused from slumber, and entered the dimly 
 lighted parlor. 
 
 Clementina Markham, her finger in the book she 
 had been reading, was aroused from sad thought as 
 Craig entered. Somewhat surprised, she stood up, 
 in summer white, simple as a wild rose, and sweet 
 with many ways of gentleness. 
 
 "How d'ye do, Miss Clementina," said Craig; 
 "come to pay a visit." 
 
 She had no experience of intoxicated men, but this 
 was obviously a man not quite sober. 
 
 "What do you want?" she said, very quietly. 
 
 Craig held himself for a moment till the room 
 stopped swinging round. When it came to a rest, 
 he inquired: 
 
 "Old man in?" This might have borne some dull 
 reference to Grace. 
 
 "Who?" she asked. "I do not understand." 
 
 "Old man Grace." 
 
 "You are insolent," she said; "you have been 
 drinking. Mr. Grace is not here; he does not live 
 here. You had better go home." 
 
 He caught at the back of a chair to steady himself. 
 
 "I ain't drunk; just a bit set up. You need n't 
 make a fuss. Old Grace, he gets drunk, real drunk 
 saw him at Carlisle. Oh, I ain't afraid of him; 
 got him safe enough. He knows me." 
 
 She rang the bell at her side, and rang again till 
 the bell-rope broke. 
 
 "What 's that for?" 
 
 The servant came in haste. 
 
 "Call Mr. Blount, Mr. Knellwood, quick some 
 one!"
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 457 
 
 "Want to see Blount you ask him 'bout it. ' ' He 
 had the singular persistency of the intoxicated. ' ' He 
 knows 'bout old Grace. I say, you set down, and 
 I '11 set down; we '11 talk it over. Don't you be 
 afraid of Grace. I '11 protect you. He knows me 
 I 'm Lionel Craig." 
 
 Blount ran down-stairs and into the room. Miss 
 Clementina, flushed, indignant, troubled as never 
 before in all her too tranquil life, was standing with 
 the broken bell-rope in her hand. 
 
 "This man, Martin he is intoxicated. He 
 says " she stopped. "He says some nonsense." 
 
 "What did you say?" cried Blount. Craig was 
 far over the line of dread of consequences. 
 
 "She says I 'm drunk. I say old Grace he gets 
 drunk. You and me saw him. We know we saw 
 him we know, don't we?" 
 
 Blount caught him by the arm. 
 
 "Out of this," he said; "don't make a row here." 
 
 "You let me alone." 
 
 Blount, with no gentle hand, pushed him out into 
 the hall, and, swinging open the street door, thrust 
 him forth roughly. 
 
 "If you were not drunk, Craig, I would thrash 
 you well. Off with you ! By George, this is twice 
 I have let you go ! If ever I see you again, if it be 
 even in Roger Grace's office, I will Out with 
 you!" He pushed him down the steps, and left him 
 swearing as he clung to a tree-box on the sidewalk. 
 
 Blount paused, surprised, at the door of the par- 
 lor. The quiet little lady there had seemed to him 
 always so tranquil, so dutiful, so far from the influ-
 
 468 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 ence of passion or emotion in this side eddy of city 
 life. Now she was seated, her head in her hands, 
 sobbing. Martin, who loved her well, stood over 
 her, deeply distressed. 
 
 "But he has gone," he said. "Please don't cry, 
 Miss Clementina." He was puzzled by her grief, 
 and sorry for what he could not understand. She 
 sat with her face in her handkerchief, making no 
 reply to his embarrassed efforts to comfort her. At 
 last she sat up, hastily wiped her eyes, and said : 
 
 "Please not to tell Letitia." 
 
 "Tell what? Why, there is n't any harm in cry- 
 ing. I 've been awful near it, just watching you. 
 I '11 do whatever you say." 
 
 To his surprise, she stood up and said rapidly, as 
 she laid a hand on his arm : 
 
 "What he said, what that man said cannot be 
 true. It is very disagreeable to hear such things 
 said. Of course it cannot be true!" She paused, 
 as if for assurance of the untruth of this drunken 
 babble. Martin, embarrassed, made no reply. "Why 
 don't you answer?" she continued. "He said he 
 saw he said you saw Roger Grace at at Carlisle. 
 Oh, I can't talk about it! You heard what he 
 said." 
 
 "Why, a man like that, Miss Clementina, will say 
 anything." 
 
 Blount looked down on the tearful, questioning 
 eyes. What honest answer could he make? She 
 hastened to explain her too evident anxiety. "He 
 has been so good to me to us, and I should be so 
 sorry. But it cannot be true. You can't think it
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 459 
 
 is?" The faint smile of an innocent hope was as 
 the rainbow to these tears. "Please tell me." 
 
 How could he reply? He tried to escape. 
 
 "You can never believe what a beast like that says. 
 I would n't worry about Roger Grace." 
 
 Of a sudden she looked like the rigid little grand- 
 mother of the portrait above her. She shed the re- 
 straints, the prudence, the reserve of years. 
 
 "You should know better than to trifle with me. 
 I insist on knowing. Is it true or not?" 
 
 He was yet more puzzled. Here was another Clem- 
 entina. 
 
 "I cannot tell you." He was at his wits' end. 
 
 "Then it is true." 
 
 He urged that she had no right to use his silence 
 as implying an affirmative. She said: 
 
 "I know, I know. You are afraid to tell me. I 
 thought you, at least, were my friend." Then she 
 sat down, leaving Martin much discomfited, and glad 
 to be enabled to glide quietly out of the room. He 
 went up-stairs, mind-blind, as he said in after years, 
 face to face with his first serious feminine problem. 
 He thought : 
 
 " Is a secret ever kept ? Here is one of the utmost 
 moment, and Craig and I and Archer and Mrs. Hun- 
 ter, and now Miss Clementina all know it. Grace 
 would pay thousands to hide it." He could not 
 help wondering why it so deeply troubled Miss Clem- 
 entina. It was pretty bad, but if Grace had been 
 her brother she could not have made more fuss. He 
 passed Miss Letitia in the hall and to her question 
 replied :
 
 460 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 ' ' Oh, it was only a drunken man. I put him out. ' ' 
 The gray-haired lady paused at the open door of the 
 parlor. 
 
 ' ' Clementina ! ' ' she exclaimed. ' ' Look at the floor, 
 dear." The worn Turkey carpet was soiled with the 
 mud Craig's feet had brought in from the street. 
 Hearing no reply, she raised her head. "Why, my 
 dear sister, you have been weeping. What is the 
 matter?" 
 
 "That man Craig was here. He was intoxicated. 
 He was disagreeable." 
 
 "But did that make you cry? You seem discom- 
 posed, Clementina, and for a creature like that ! If 
 we are to go on supporting ourselves we must take 
 what comes. I have sometimes reproached myself of 
 /late that I had not enough insisted on the govern- 
 ment of the emotions. When, a few weeks ago, that 
 butcher was in haste to be paid and was inconsider- 
 ate and, I may say, abrupt, you were quite needlessly 
 disturbed." 
 
 ' ' I think I had better go to bed, ' ' said Clementina, 
 who had the desire of the hurt creature to find a lonely 
 corner. ' ' I will send Susan to attend to the carpet. ' ' 
 
 "Do, my dear. An intoxicated person! It does 
 seem to me, Clementina, that we are almost keeping 
 a boarding-house." 
 
 " Or a tavern ! ' ' said the younger lady, sharply. 
 
 "A tavern! I would not quite say that, dear." 
 
 "Well, as you please, sister. But life is some- 
 times very hard, very difficult, very worthless." 
 
 "Is n't that rather excessive, and I might even say 
 irrelevant?"
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 461 
 
 "Oh, say what you like, I don't care. Let me go. 
 I don't care what any one says." 
 
 ' ' Clementina ! ' ' But Clementina had fled. 
 
 Miss Letitia raised hands of dismay and surprise, 
 looked down at the carpet, and then at the general, 
 and last at the Councilor of Penn. She took the 
 miniature of Gerald from the mantel and kissed it. 
 Her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away 
 with a quick movement. 
 
 "I am glad Clementina is not here," she said 
 aloud, and stood still until the mud was in part 
 cleaned away. "It will be dry to-morrow, Susan. 
 Then you can brush it out. Be careful. You can 
 always brush away mud marks if you wait until the 
 next day, but not always other things," she added, 
 reflectively, unaware of being an heroic person or 
 that, as often before, she was reinforcing endurance 
 with memories of men and women long dead. 
 
 She went up-stairs automatically, wiping her tear- 
 dimmed glasses. 
 
 "Perhaps I was too severe with Tina," she said to 
 herself. Very rarely did she use the diminutive of 
 her sister's childhood. "But of late she is changed. 
 I suppose she is feeling the results of this uncertain 
 life. It is hard on the young." For her Tina was 
 always a girl, needing restraint and guidance. Yes, 
 she had been severe. She remembered her merry, 
 gay, pretty, and prosperous. It was not so very 
 long ago, and now She knocked at her sister's 
 door. "Tina, dear." 
 
 "I am undressing. Good night." 
 
 "Will you have a little valerian, dear?"
 
 462 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "Oh, no ! There is nothing the matter with me." 
 
 ' ' Or my smelling-salts ? ' ' 
 
 Clementina laughed the self-mocking laugh of the 
 wretched. 
 
 "No, no," and Letitia went to her own room, re- 
 proaching herself and unhappy. 
 
 Clementina sat on her bedside. "My poor Leti- 
 tia !" she exclaimed. "Well, this is the end. What 
 a life ! What a life ! I cannot even tell him how I 
 pity him. And how can it be? A man like him! 
 Oh, it is all a maddening puzzle. ' ' She laughed out- 
 right the laugh that is twin to tears. "Valerian for 
 a broken heart!"
 
 XLIII 
 
 JNELLWOOD had gone to his room for 
 a book before Blount went down-stairs. 
 Martin, returning, found him again in 
 Grace's library. The rector looked up, 
 and said : ' ' The bells seem to have gone 
 mad below stairs. What was it, Blount?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing much. Craig came here drunk. I 
 put him out." 
 
 "Indeed! I went down as far as the door of the 
 parlor. He must have gone. I only heard Miss 
 Clementina crying, and then you spoke. Of course 
 I did not go in. What was the matter ? A woman 
 like that does n't cry merely because a drunken man 
 comes in." 
 
 ' ' Oh, women are extraordinary things ! ' ' 
 ' ' Things ! My dear fellow, ' ' said the rector, smil- 
 ing, "you had better not classify them to Mrs. Swan- 
 wick as things." 
 
 "You never can tell what they will do." 
 "I have seen men to whom that would apply." 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 "I heard her ask you if what Craig said was true. 
 
 What was it? I do not ask lightly. These people 
 
 are now my friends. I owe to them kindness never 
 
 to be repaid. If there is anything going wrong that 
 
 463
 
 464 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 I can help to set right, I want to help. She was 
 plainly in distress. If for any reason you do not 
 want to speak I will ask her. "Women like these are 
 reticent, and hide things when sometimes a few frank 
 words would enable one to help them." 
 
 Martin felt, as he listened, that it was hard to 
 know what to do. Here was Craig again drunkenly 
 talkative. How many people had he talked to of 
 this matter? More than ever the folly of an over- 
 sensitive man became plain to Blount. Grace ought 
 to know how little good his weakness had done. 
 Again the ethical question arose in the young man's 
 mind, but now it embarrassed him less. It was 
 hardly to be called a secret any longer. Presently 
 others would know it. He shared to some extent the 
 feelings of Grace. If he himself had fallen like his 
 friend he would have fled from all these kindly folk, 
 ashamed. He hesitated before making answer. 
 Knellwood waited. At last Martin said : 
 
 1 ' That miserable sot told Miss Clementina that he 
 saw Roger Grace drunk at Carlisle." He expected 
 as he spoke to see the clergyman astonished. Knell- 
 wood showed no sign of surprise, and said, quietly: 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 "All, sir? It 's awful." 
 
 "Do you believe it?" Blount was again in the 
 toils. 
 
 "I don't want to be asked any questions about it." 
 
 Knellwood understood at once. 
 
 "Pardon me," he said, "I shall say no more: but, 
 leaving you out of the matter altogether, Grace 
 should know what has passed here. ' '
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 465 
 
 "I think so," said Martin. "Yes, I really think 
 so." He was greatly relieved, but added, quickly: 
 "Will you tell him? And you will not speak of me? 
 I have my reasons." 
 
 "I will see Mr. Grace to-morrow, and I shall have 
 no occasion to use your name." 
 
 "Thank you," said Blount. Then he hesitated, 
 and said at last, with characteristic courage: "But 
 if there is any doubt about it in Mr. Grace's mind, 
 I don't want to shirk the matter, even if it might 
 seem to him Well, I leave it all to you." 
 
 ' ' That is wise and right. One other question, and 
 then we will drop it. Was Miss Clementina very 
 much troubled?" 
 
 ' ' I should say she was. Why, Mr. Knell wood, she 
 cried like a baby. It was really rather strange. Of 
 course we all care immensely for Mr. Grace, but why 
 it should set Miss Clementina to crying is past my 
 comprehension. ' ' 
 
 "Indeed ! Well, Martin, women are a soft-hearted 
 folk. You cannot always know what they mean. 
 Poor little woman ! ' ' 
 
 He rose, and said as he took Martin's hand : "This 
 has been a grave talk. You won't mind my saying 
 that you have behaved with discretion and good 
 sense. Good night." 
 
 "Thank you."
 
 XLIV 
 
 JHEN, late this Sunday night, Craig 
 found his sister in his room, and not 
 the more amiable for waiting, he was 
 in no state to be dealt with. Early on 
 Monday she settled matters with des- 
 potic swiftness, and about one of the same day 
 found Dr. Archer at home. ''No," she said, "I will 
 not sit down. Will this do ? " laying on his table an 
 open letter to Roger Grace. "Read it. There are 
 three one-hundred-dollar notes in this envelop. Be 
 careful Mr. Grace gets it in person." 
 
 "Very good; it is as it should be." It amused 
 him not a little, both the cool caution and the letter, 
 but he kept a grave face and did as she desired. 
 
 The letter was in Lucretia's best style, certainly 
 not Craig's, although he had copied and signed it in 
 a rather tremulous hand, and written "Private" on 
 the cover. 
 
 "Is that all? "she said. 
 
 "Yes, that is all." As she turned to go out the 
 light fell full upon her. She was of a corpse-like 
 yellowish pallor. 
 
 ' ' She has suffered, ' ' he thought. " Is it that boy ? " 
 Her face was stern. There was a certain rigidity 
 about her look. Where was it he had seen that col-
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 467 
 
 oring? It was like some antique marble. He went 
 with her to the door. "Good morning." She made 
 no reply. 
 
 She walked to Second Street, and took the street- 
 car up to the shipyards of Kichmond. Here, miles 
 away from the center of the city, she entered a drug- 
 gist's shop and had made up an old prescription of 
 Dr. Soper's for a strong preparation of aconite. 
 When she had once complained of palpitation of 
 the heart he had given her this, telling her to be 
 careful, as the dose was small, and a teaspoonful 
 would be fatal. She had never used it. 
 
 The druggist warned her of its poisonous power. 
 She said through her veil that she had used it often. 
 The prescription was correct. He could not re- 
 fuse it. The man's doubts troubled her. She 
 started out, walking swiftly. In a few minutes she 
 was lost. In what were known as the Northern Lib- 
 erties, the yea-and-nay plainness of Penn's checker- 
 board city is changed in the wildering confusion of 
 streets crossing at all angles. She was made calm 
 again by the need to find her way, but was so long 
 delayed that she missed a train. It was late in the 
 afternoon when she reached Edgewood, where she 
 went at once to her room and began to pack up her 
 clothes, unassisted, as was desirable, for the accumu- 
 lations were many and valuable.
 
 XLV 
 
 |UST before the close of bank hours on 
 Monday, Roger Grace received by a 
 messenger a letter marked "Private." 
 He had his hat in his hand, and was 
 about to leave. He had been out most 
 of the morning. A clerk reminded him that Mr. 
 Knellwood, who had failed to find him earlier, would 
 return at three. 
 
 "Thank you. When he comes show him in." 
 He sat down and read the letter, with a vast sense 
 of satisfaction, of thankfulness, and also of surprise. 
 
 " RESPECTED SIR : I have not had a moment of happiness 
 since I broke my word to Mr. Blount. I did worse to threaten 
 you that I would tell what I knew if you did not send me 
 money. I hope if ever you felt sorry for anything you ever 
 did when you were young, you will feel sorry for me. I was in 
 debt and did not know where to turn. I hope you will under- 
 stand that I was not myself, and was tempted. I am going 
 away. May I entreat, Sir, that you will forgive me ? I enclose 
 three hundred dollars, which I borrowed from my sister. I paid 
 my debts with your money. 
 
 " Respectfully, 
 
 "LIONEL CRAIG. 
 
 "Button's Hotel, Market Street." 
 
 Grace sat still, the letter in his hand. He was in 
 a mood to be touched by the plea and to be sorry for 
 
 468
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 469 
 
 the man. He laid it on the table, and sat in thought, 
 comparing his own case with that of this miserable 
 boy, who had sinned and repented. What right had 
 he to blame him? Both had alike been tempted; 
 both had fallen; but this was a young man, not a 
 man in well-disciplined middle age. Then, too, he 
 himself had timidly shrunk from facing conse- 
 quences, as this man, scourged by conscience, had 
 found courage to do. He had reproached himself 
 with cowardice, with failure to punish that meanest 
 of crimes, blackmailing. His very great happiness 
 at this relief made him uncritically charitable. He 
 took a sheet of paper and wrote : 
 
 "Mr. Grace has received Mr. Craig's note. Mr. Craig may 
 be assured that the matter will go no further. Mr. Grace feels 
 deeply the penitent tone of Mr. Craig's letter, and hopes it 
 may be the beginning of a better life. He returns the money 
 in a check to Mr. Craig's order, and desires that Mr. Craig will 
 consider it as a gift from one who, fully appreciating the 
 motives which caused it to be returned, prefers not to keep it." 
 
 He sent his note at once to Craig's address. In 
 his amazement at this windfall, Lionel forgot to men- 
 tion it to his sister, and told her he had for reasons 
 of prudence burned a brief, very kind note from 
 Mr. Grace. 
 
 And as for Grace, he could have doubled his 
 check. He was beyond expression relieved, and 
 with the relief began to wonder why he had been 
 such a fool. He had hardly added this letter to his 
 sum of folly and sent it on its way when Knellwood 
 entered. Although Grace was always pleasant, and
 
 470 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 made you feel that you were welcome, Knellwood was 
 conscious that there was more than common pleas- 
 antness in his usual phrase. "What can I do for 
 you to-day, Knellwood?" 
 
 "Nothing; I want, for a wonder, to do something 
 for you. ' ' 
 
 "Well, I am amiable. Sit down." 
 
 "May I close the door?" 
 
 ' * Certainly. What is it ? " 
 
 "When you honored me with your confidence I 
 felt that, as to a part of what you said, you were 
 utterly wrong. Indeed, I said as much. You went 
 away, and I, of course, knew why. You were seen 
 at Carlisle by that fellow Craig." 
 
 "Goodness gracious, Knellwood! Who told you 
 that ? Surely not Martin ! ' ' 
 
 "The fellow came to Miss Markham's quite off his 
 head last night and saw Miss Clementina. He boasted 
 that he had seen you at Carlisle, and " 
 
 Grace lifted a hand. 
 
 "That will do," he said, flushing. "Miss Clemen- 
 tina! Read that, Knellwood." He gave him Craig's 
 note. 
 
 "I do not think," said the clergyman, "that this 
 letter is altogether like the man Craig. It is too 
 clever. The hand" and he smiled "is the hand 
 of Esau. But no matter. It is a confession. You 
 are safe. So he tried to blackmail you?" 
 
 "Yes, and I yielded," said Grace, defiantly, as if 
 expectant of criticism. 
 
 "You were wrong, Grace. It was a thing to meet 
 with prompt courage. It was a wrong to the com- 
 munity, and, as you see, useless."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 471 
 
 "I would do it again." 
 
 "No, never. But there is a graver matter. What 
 you felt most was that you, a man cursed with this 
 craving, could not with a clear conscience ask a 
 woman you had taught to love you to give you her 
 life." 
 
 "How could If" 
 
 "How could you? Only see, my friend, how it 
 has worked out for her. Now she knows too much or 
 too little. You are in honor bound to let her know 
 all to let her choose, not choose for her. There is 
 no other course possible." 
 
 Grace got up and walked to and fro in visible 
 agitation. 
 
 "Did it trouble her?" he asked, pausing, a hand 
 on his friend's shoulder. 
 
 "My dear Grace, she cried like a little child." 
 
 "Oh, my God!" 
 
 "Do you think that a woman feels as you do about 
 a thing like this ? What she wants is to comfort, to 
 help, to watch over you. It will never happen again. 
 It is not the common, constant temptation. ' ' 
 
 "No, it is worse." He shook his head mournfully. 
 
 ' ' Nonsense ! Go like a man and talk to Archer, 
 and, above all, go and set yourself right with Miss 
 Clementina. ' ' 
 
 ' ' And suppose she is foolish enough to say she will 
 marry me ? " 
 
 "Then, thank God to-night for the gift. Now go, 
 at once. Do not wait. What need to ask her to 
 marry you ? What I want is that, as an honest man, 
 you let her know the whole truth, and why your 
 sick conscience made you desert her."
 
 472 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "I will go. I will at least do that." 
 
 Knellwood smiled behind his clerical hat as he 
 lifted it. ' ' You will go now ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, I will go." 
 
 The rector went away, amused at his role of 
 matchmaker, paid a visit or two, and dropped in late 
 at Mrs. Swan wick's. He found Archer, Margaret, 
 and her husband. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I sail next week, but I am 
 ridiculously well and consider it a wicked waste of 
 time and money." 
 
 "We shall miss you," said Archer, "and, I fear, 
 so will the Markhams." 
 
 "May I tell him?" said Margaret. 
 
 "No," cried Archer, laughing; "but you may tell 
 him that Mrs. Hunter leaves on Wednesday for ever 
 and ages, as the Russians say. We think of having 
 fireworks." 
 
 "From all I have heard," said Knellwood, "Miss 
 Fairthorne will not grieve. As to the rest as to 
 your secret, I may at least be permitted to guess ? ' ' 
 
 "No, indeed!" 
 
 "I am at your service for the trousseau in Paris. 
 They say I am given over to church millinery; per- 
 haps my experience may be of use." 
 
 Amused at the idea of Knellwood choosing a 
 trousseau, Margaret said to Archer : 
 
 "I made no promises." 
 
 "Please don't." 
 
 "Well, we will mention no names," laughed Knell- 
 wood. "I am rather in that line to-day myself, but 
 mine is prophetic."
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 473 
 
 "How exasperating you are! Do tell us," said 
 Madge. 
 
 "I might. I may exchange news, but I guess 
 yours, and you cannot guess mine. My warmest 
 congratulations, Archer. She will have the best fel- 
 low I know. ' ' 
 
 In the midst of it all Jack made a wild rush into 
 the room and at once mounted on Knell wood's knee 
 for a ride. The talk went on as to the mysteriously 
 abrupt departure of Mrs. Hunter and what John 
 Fairthorne would say or do, concerning which Mrs. 
 Margaret was in doubt. As Knellwood and Swan- 
 wick talked together, Archer said to Margaret: "I 
 wish you would go out to Edgewood and stay until 
 she leaves." He had some unstateable apprehen- 
 sion, and urged his request so strongly that she said, 
 speaking low: "Why are you so anxious?" 
 
 "I do not know. Are you never in that state of 
 mind?" 
 
 "No, never, without a cause." 
 
 "But you will go. Perhaps because of Mary I 
 am well, absurd, if you like." He was haunted by 
 that stern, sallow face. She said, at length: "I will 
 go, but only because you wish it." 
 
 "Promise me." 
 
 "I do. I will go out early to-morrow." 
 
 At last Archer rose. "I shall be at Edgewood in 
 the afternoon to-morrow I hope." 
 
 "Very good. We shall meet there. You are not 
 going so soon, Mr. Knellwood ? ' ' 
 
 "I must. I am full of bits of business," and he 
 left them.
 
 474 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "He was mysterious," said Swan wick. "I won- 
 der what it was. ' ' 
 
 "Are you very glad for me, Mrs. Margaret?" said 
 Archer. She had seemed to him to take his great 
 news very calmly. She laughed. "I am not Mrs. 
 Margaret. I am Madge now and always. How tall 
 you are ! I like nice fat little doctors nearer my 
 own earthly level. Stoop down a little. I want to 
 tell you something." 
 
 "What is it?" he said, as he bent over. Then 
 she kissed him, crying: "That is how glad I am, 
 Sydney Archer!" 
 
 ' ' Oh, my ! " said Jack. * ' I did n 't know you kissed 
 everybody. ' ' 
 
 "I do not," said Madge. "What brought you 
 here, you little scamp?" 
 
 "I heard Mr. Knell wood," said the boy; "I like 
 him. He 's got nice long legs to ride."
 
 XLVI 
 
 ever mortal was afflicted with an ague of 
 indecision it was the banker after he had 
 committed himself to Knellwood. He 
 concluded that it was better to write 
 what he had to say. Next he recalled 
 the fact that he had written one letter too many that 
 day, and was in no mood to write letters. After all, 
 what could he write? It was horrible to put it all 
 in black ink, to be burned or not, as might chance. 
 
 Meanwhile, in automatic obedience to the idea 
 which was in his mind on leaving his office, he 
 walked toward Pine Street with the slow pace of a 
 man deep in thought. Thus absorbed, he moved 
 southward down Third Street, past the brokers' of- 
 fices and the beautiful marble front of Girard's 
 Bank. As he went by men spoke or touched their 
 hats, and wondered that they did not receive the 
 usual cheerful response. 
 
 On the step, with the bell-handle in his grasp, he 
 still hesitated. "No, I cannot. Not to-day," he 
 murmured. He turned to go. 
 
 Then circumstance, in the shape of Susan, opened 
 the door. With the friendly familiarity of the old- 
 fashioned black servant, she said : 
 
 "Why, Mr. Grace, we ain't seen yo' these weeks. 
 475
 
 476 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 The ladies was a-speakin' of yo' this very mornin' 
 at breakfuss. Come in." 
 
 He entered, saying: "I am going up to the li- 
 brary. Tell Miss Clementina that I should like to 
 see her in the parlor. I will be down in a minute 
 or two." 
 
 He went up-stairs slowly, and passed through the 
 open door of his bed-chamber. His library, a room 
 thirty feet wide, lay across the entire front of the 
 house. To it he had brought most of the books he 
 cared to have about him. He opened the door and 
 went in. 
 
 Perched high on the top of a step-ladder sat the 
 woman he had come to see. She was in gray linen, 
 her sleeves rolled up, and she wore a blue-check 
 apron to preserve her from the dust she had been 
 carefully blowing or brushing from a precious shelf 
 of daintily bound volumes of authors' proofs. The 
 long apron gave her slight figure a childlike youth- 
 fulness which Grace at any other time would have 
 been quick to observe. Just now she had paused to 
 note the changes which the hand of her best-loved 
 poet had made on a page proof of the "Excursion." 
 She looked up, and, coloring, dropped her skirts over 
 a pair of neat ankles, and came down quickly from 
 her perch. It would be hard to say which of the two 
 was most confused. 
 
 "I was dusting your books," she began; "it is 
 quite impossible to keep out the dust. Pray excuse 
 my appearance." It certainly needed no excuse. 
 Without any word of greeting, he said: "I came to 
 get a book, but I also wanted to see you." 
 
 "What is it?" she asked, and then, hastily: "Can
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 477 
 
 I find you the book you want? I really think I 
 know better than their owner where your books are. 
 I was quite absorbed in your Wordsworth proofs. 
 What book shall I find for you?" 
 
 ' ' That can wait. I have an explanation to make. ' ' 
 He drew himself up, resolute at last. "I want to 
 say that what that drunken young man told you last 
 night is true ; but a half truth is often worse than a 
 lie. This this horror this thing has happened to 
 me five times in my life. I could not leave you in 
 the belief that I am a common " 
 
 She broke in : " Oh, don 't ! I do not want to know. 
 You are very good to wish to say what must cost you 
 so dear. I do not wish to hear it. I a man's 
 whole life counts for something, Mr. Grace, and I 
 know what yours has been." She seemed, as she 
 stood before him, to be a larger personality than he 
 had known in the quiet past. She had the dignity 
 which some little women possess. A beautiful ten- 
 derness was in her tear-filled eyes. 
 
 There was a moment of silence after she ceased to 
 speak. The gentle truth of the excuse overcame the 
 strong man. He had wondered again and again 
 what she would say. He had never dreamed that 
 she could or would be anything but shocked, or 
 would fail to feel the disgust the remembrance had 
 for him. He sat down, with his hand on his fore- 
 head. The woman stood before him. Boundless 
 pity, born out of the first love of a restrained and 
 limited life, rose up and captured her. 
 
 The man was as much a child as she had been the 
 night before. He shook with the passion of an emo- 
 tion he was unable to restrain.
 
 478 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 She put out a hand and timidly touched his shoul- 
 der. She was on the verge of an equal loss of self- 
 control. "Please not to to do so," she said. "I 
 can't bear it." 
 
 "Why are you so good to me?" said he, not look- 
 ing up. 
 
 "I am only just, not good." 
 
 "No. Is it possible? How can I believe that! 
 Oh, I cannot bear it ! Your sweet goodness, I mean. 
 I am not fit to talk to you. I must go." He stood 
 up. She said, instantly : 
 
 "You cannot go." 
 
 "I must." 
 
 "But" and she flushed and was silent, speaking 
 only with her eyes. 
 
 "But what? You have not blamed me? Say 
 what you will; I have deserved the worst you can 
 say." 
 
 "How could I hurt you? How could I blame 
 you? You, who are so good to me, to all " 
 
 "You ought to wish never to see me again." 
 
 "No, no. I can say nothing like that. Oh, never 
 because " Then he raised his eyes, and saw the 
 truth in hers. He held her off, seizing both wrists 
 and facing her. 
 
 "You love me ? I ought to be sorry that you love 
 me. I see it in your eyes. My God ! It is pitiful." 
 
 "Yes, I love you," she said, faintly. "Oh, what 
 have I done ? Let me go. How could I ! " 
 
 "Never!" he cried, and he lifted her hand rever- 
 ently to his lips, as Miss Letitia entered. 
 
 For the first and last time in her life she said:
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 479 
 
 "Great heavens!" and then, "Clementina, what does 
 this mean, child f ' ' 
 
 "It means, dear lady," said Grace, "that I have 
 what no man deserves less than I. Miss Clementina 
 has done me this honor." 
 
 Miss Letitia put up her glasses and regarded him 
 as a farmer looks at the culprit boy caught stealing 
 apples. 
 
 "I am surprised, Clementina. I think I should 
 have been consulted. This is very unexpected. I 
 was not prepared for it." 
 
 "Nor I," said Clementina, meekly. 
 
 "You will have the kindness, Mr. Grace, to follow 
 me. I desire a few words with you," said Miss 
 Markham, with severity. 
 
 Grace, embarrassed and also a little amused, said : 
 "Certainly." 
 
 ' ' You had better go on dusting the books, Clemen- 
 tina," said her sister. She went down-stairs, fol- 
 lowed by Grace. It is improbable that Clementina 
 returned to her interrupted occupation. 
 
 What thereafter passed between Miss Letitia and 
 Roger Grace it is needless to state, but, as he went 
 back to the library and found Clementina, it is to be 
 presumed that Miss Markham was satisfied. Grace 
 came out of the interview much the better for the 
 mirth it aroused ; but when, a few days after, he 
 spoke of it to Clementina, she said: "You must not 
 laugh at her. I never did. She thinks the Mark- 
 hams belong to some angelic peerage. You must not 
 mind what she said." 
 
 "I? No! I shall buy this House and give it to
 
 480 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 her, or you shall, and we will put an end to all this 
 work and worry." 
 
 "She will not let you." 
 
 "But it will be you, dear. Gracious, how pretty 
 you are ! " It was true. The butterfly had emerged 
 from the cocoon of a restricted life, and was shining 
 in the light and liberty of the sunshine love.
 
 XLVII 
 
 |VEEY one, even Archer, had left Mrs. 
 Swan wick's that afternoon. Husband 
 and wife were about to dress for din- 
 ner when the bell rang. She ordered 
 the children to the nursery. Madge 
 made haste to say to the servant : 
 
 ''Not at home." But Eoger Grace was not to be 
 denied. He was in a state of effervescent joy. 
 
 "Pardon me," he said, "I insisted. I heard your 
 husband's voice." He had been, for a year or two, 
 a most valuable friend to Harry, and had by degrees 
 attracted Madge. Moreover, she was interested in 
 his slowly developing taste for society, pictures, and 
 rare books. He had been more than merely gener- 
 ous to her charities. She had learned to like him 
 and to respect him of course, for, unlike Mary, she 
 had no liking for those whom she could not entirely 
 respect. 
 
 She made him welcome. No, he would not return 
 to dine. He had missed Swanwiek at his office. 
 There was a large bond affair on hand, and a rather 
 complicated lease of the Wilton and Detroit Kail- 
 road to be drawn. Thus he explained his visit. 
 
 "I should like to draw it," said Madge, laughing. 
 "Keep still, Jack; sit down." The boy looked on 
 Grace as his legitimate prey. 
 31 481
 
 482 CIECUMSTANCE 
 
 "You shall see it," said Harry. 
 
 "And the fee?" she laughed. 
 
 "It will be large," said the banker. "I came in 
 to ask you to call on me to-morrow. ' ' 
 
 "Come and dine with Harry. I go to Edgewood 
 for a day or two. ' ' 
 
 "Indeed! Yes, I will come. There is one other 
 little matter. I came to speak of it, too. Not quite 
 as important. Perhaps you may like to guess at it." 
 
 "It cannot be up to the news we have just had," 
 said Harry. "Mrs. Hunter, that female Nimrod, a 
 mighty hunter before the Lord or the devil de- 
 parts on Wednesday." 
 
 "Indeed !" exclaimed Grace. "You are to be con- 
 gratulated, and especially Miss Fairthorne. ' ' 
 
 "That is not all," said Harry. 
 
 ' ' Hush ! ' ' said Madge. ' ' My husband cannot keep 
 a secret." 
 
 "No one can," said Grace, grimly. "I will test 
 my belief. Here, Jack, I mean to tell you a secret. 
 If you keep it five minutes I will give you a pony." 
 
 "And a saddle?" said Jack. 
 
 "Yes, and a bridle." 
 
 Grace whispered in his ear. 
 
 "Now, five minutes, sir." He took out his watch, 
 laughing. 
 
 "Come here," saiti Madge. "You are only six. 
 You are too young for a pony." 
 
 "No," said Grace. "Now we begin." 
 
 Madge laughed. "Tell me, Jack." 
 
 "No, mama." 
 
 "If you do not tell me at once," said Harry, "I 
 will thrash you every night for a week. ' '
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 483 
 
 "Mama won't let you." 
 
 "And I will sell your pony, Jack." 
 
 "You can't until I get him, daddy." He re- 
 mained firm. 
 
 "Four minutes, Jack." 
 
 "But if you do not tell me," said Eetta, "I will 
 never love you again." 
 
 "You 're a goose, Retta." 
 
 "Time 's up," laughed Grace. "I have found the 
 only fellow that can keep a secret. Go and tell 
 mama. The pony is all right." 
 
 "Mama, the secret is somebody is going to marry 
 Mr. Grace." 
 
 "I suppose so," said Harry, "some day." 
 
 "No, now-day," said Jack. 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Swanwick, I am like a child for the 
 joy of it. It is Miss Clementina." 
 
 "Well, that is almost as good as the other," cried 
 Harry. "Nonsense, Madge! I must. Archer is 
 engaged to Mary Fairthorne." 
 
 "I told you," cried Madge, "I was sure he would 
 tell." 
 
 "Well, you dear people, my belief is again justi- 
 fied. No one can keep a secret. I owe you much, 
 Mrs. Swanwick ; and this, too, in a way. ' ' 
 
 "Upon my word, Madge," said Harry, after Grace 
 had gone, "I must have a bottle of champagne to- 
 day. I hope nothing more will happen this week."
 
 XLVIII 
 
 N this Monday afternoon Mrs. Hunter 
 despatched her brother to New York, a 
 thoroughly alarmed man, and he thus 
 passes out of this story toward the 
 sad fate of those who lack power to 
 resist temptation. 
 
 Mrs. Swanwick, to Mary's great relief and some- 
 what to her surprise, appeared at Edgewood on 
 Tuesday morning, and Mrs. Hunter, who had re- 
 turned the afternoon of the day before, was not 
 pleased with this addition of another and a too 
 watchful witness. 
 
 Mr. Fairthorne kept his room on Monday. He 
 was restless all day, complaining of sharp pains in 
 his heart, and asked repeatedly for Lucretia. Dr. 
 Soper had been sent for, and had advised quiet and 
 turkey soup rather than chicken soup. He hoped 
 the arsenical drops would be given punctually ten 
 minutes before the meal, but if unfortunately for- 
 gotten then to be given ten minutes after the meal. 
 Above all, there should be no excitement. He went 
 away, as usual, optimistically at ease, leaving the 
 nieces by no means reassured. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter had a late supper, having arrived 
 after dinner. After a little more packing, she sat 
 484
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 485 
 
 down in her wrapper at the open window. She was 
 summing up her chances. If she went away, as she 
 knew she must, she could keep Fairthorne in a good 
 humor for a while by letters. But would they let 
 him see her letters? She was a woman who found 
 it impossible to guess what others would do except 
 by asking herself what, under like circumstances, she 
 would do herself. She decided that Mary Fair- 
 thorne would not hesitate to read and burn any let- 
 ters she might write. She would certainly take care 
 that they did not reach Mr. Fairthorne. As surely 
 Mrs. Swanwick would stand implacably in her way, 
 and no letter from the uncle would ever be mailed. 
 She misjudged both women. 
 
 Archer had said that he did not think any one 
 would try to test the validity of the codicil. That 
 might or might not be the case. It was Mr. Fair- 
 thorne she feared. On condition that she remained 
 with him and gave up the school appointment he 
 had promised to leave her money. He had kept his 
 word. Now, she was to be driven out and forced to 
 leave him without reasonable excuse. What would 
 he do? She was very sure what he would do. He 
 would be furious. All the chances were hostile. 
 
 But he had a weak heart, and, Archer had said, 
 was in constant peril. Dr. Soper was not of that 
 opinion; it was latent gout. She smiled. What a 
 poultice of a man ! She had at last seen enough 
 to believe that Archer was right ; Mr. Fairthorne 
 might die suddenly, but when? If he lived even a 
 few weeks he would surely revenge her unexplained 
 desertion by changing his will. If he lived? She
 
 486 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 had always faced impending disaster with resolu- 
 tion, and hesitated at no remedial means short of 
 positive punishable crime. Again and again she had 
 come near to it, and then had found some less risky 
 resort. But here she saw none. 
 
 Pilgrim had written that he had put in trust for 
 her in Boston enough to give her for life the annual 
 income he had been paying by a quarterly draft. 
 He wished to end even this slight relation. Why he 
 had ever given the money she could not see, but now 
 it would certainly be safe whether he died or 
 changed his mind. 
 
 Then, too, her gains had been large, and the auto- 
 graph business profitable. Would Mr. Fairthorne 
 ever discover the share she had exacted? What if 
 the man in South Street, losing her as an interme- 
 diary, should betray her to Fairthorne, or be forced 
 to confess? W T hat then? There was another risk, 
 for other skilled autograph collectors came to see 
 this collection. 
 
 She leaned on the ledge of the open window and 
 looked out at the night. A dog bayed in a distant 
 farmyard. Now and then an early katydid shrilled 
 its sharp statement, "Katy-did, katy-did n't." 
 
 "If before I count nine," she said, "no, thirteen, 
 that dog bays again, I will do it." As she spoke, 
 Felisa, who usually slept in her room, leaped on the 
 window-sill. It startled Lucretia. A moment later 
 she repeated : 
 
 "Thirteen! No, thirteen will not do. It is my 
 unlucky number. It shall be fifteen." 
 
 The night was intensely dark. She stared through
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 487 
 
 the open space and waited. Then she began to 
 count, slowly: "One, two." As she said "thirteen" 
 the long, melancholy cry of the dog broke the 
 stillness. 
 
 "There," she cried, "I will do it! I wish it had 
 not been thirteen." 
 
 The strange howl, or I know not what, disturbed 
 Felisa. She sprang on Lucretia's shoulder and fled 
 with a wild cry to the door, thence back to the win- 
 dow, leaped a few feet to the veranda roof, and was 
 lost to view. 
 
 ' * Ye saints ! ' ' exclaimed Lucretia. She was startled 
 by the hollow sound of her own voice, and strangely 
 troubled by Felisa 's flight. A vague fear came upon 
 her. It was like a desertion of the one friendly 
 thing in an unfriendly house. For a while she 
 looked out into the unrevealing night. At last she 
 called: "Felisa, Felisa." There was no response. 
 Sitting down, she let fall the masses of her dark hair, 
 and slowly ran her hands through it as she tried to 
 strengthen her resolve. 
 
 Yes, she must make sure. There was so much she 
 wanted an un watched life, the demi-mondaine free- 
 dom, the opera, the cafe chantant, the social Texas 
 of Cairo or Tangiers, anything except the tiresome 
 decencies in which she had patiently lived. And 
 Kitty? She had promised to go with her. 
 
 She turned aside coolly, as often before, to sum 
 up the danger. How much aconite was needed? 
 Her time was short. She went to bed, and could not 
 sleep. The dog bayed. She shut the window, and 
 still tossed about, restless through the long hours of
 
 488 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 the night. She ordered breakfast in her room, and, 
 making a careful toilet, entered the library before 
 ten. Felisa left her chair and came to purr a wel- 
 come at her feet. Madge had tried to persuade her 
 uncle to remain in bed for the day. Dr. Soper had 
 said rest was desirable. The old man would have his 
 own way. Why had they refused to let Archer at- 
 tend him? Soper was a petticoat doctor. He in- 
 sisted on rising even earlier than usual, and after 
 breakfast went into the library. Here Mrs. Hunter 
 found him seated. 
 
 "I will come back presently," said Madge, and left 
 the room as Lucretia entered. 
 
 "Where have you been?" Fairthorne said to Lu- 
 cretia. ' ' If you neglect me I shall die. ' ' 
 
 She soothed him, stroked his gray hair, and gave 
 a laughing account of her shopping and of the bad 
 manners of the shop-girls. Had he taken his ar- 
 senic ? As she desired to please Soper, she had given 
 it steadily of late. 
 
 "No; no one looked after him." This was incor- 
 rect ; Mary had given it before breakfast, but he had 
 forgotten. 
 
 "I will give it," she said; "Dr. Soper wishes it 
 given in a little sherry." 
 
 She went down-stairs and poured into the small 
 medicine-cup a glassful of sherry wine. In her own 
 room she added a teaspoonful of aconite and then a 
 little water. She put the half-empty vial in her 
 pocket and returned to the library. 
 
 On the stair she halted. The indecision of the 
 unhabitual criminal was upon her. Was there no
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 489 
 
 other way? Yes, she would tell him she must go 
 away. That would do. She would try him. 
 
 "I will say Lionel is ill." Glad of her self -re- 
 prieve, she went on up-stairs. ' ' If he is good to me, ' ' 
 she said, "I will not do it. If he is angry it will 
 be he who decides." 
 
 She entered and set down the glass on his table. 
 Then she knelt and took his hand. "Mr. Fair- 
 thorne," she said, "my brother is ill in New York. 
 I must go to him. Cannot you do without me for a 
 few weeks ? I am in great trouble. ' ' 
 
 The old man looked around at her. "You can't 
 go. You promised to stay with me. I am weaker 
 every day. Yon won't leave me, Lucretia?" 
 
 "But Lionel is ill, sir. I I have to go to him. 
 Please to be good to me." 
 
 "You promised," he said, with dull persistency. 
 
 "But I must go. I have no choice. I will soon 
 come back." 
 
 He was now, as always, excited by opposition. He 
 pulled away his hand and sat up. ' ' I won 't have it. 
 I can change my mind, too. If you go away and 
 desert me you will suffer for it. I will not let you. ' ' 
 His eyes filled, from the childishness of age; a tear 
 rolled down his cheek. He was conscious of his 
 weakness, and angered by this signal of loss of self- 
 restraint. He cried out : "You are ungrateful, damn 
 you!" 
 
 Lucretia rose. Her wide eyes narrowed to a line, 
 and her face set hard. "I can't bear to have you 
 threaten me. It is sad enough to leave you." 
 
 "Then, stay."
 
 490 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 "I will write. I will see what I can do. I will 
 try to stay." 
 
 "Well, then, give me my medicine." He put out 
 a shaking hand to reach the glass. 
 
 She quickly anticipated his act, and stood up, 
 again indecisive. Yes, she must! As she turned 
 toward him, he said: "I hate that stuff. You have 
 upset me with your cursed nonsense. Between Soper 
 and you, I shall be poisoned. Why do you stand 
 there staring at me ? Let me get the stuff down and 
 be done with it." 
 
 She stood like a statue, unable to move. It was 
 only to put out her hand. She tried to do so. She 
 could not. Of a sudden she broke into a profuse, 
 chilly sweat. 
 
 "Give it to me," he cried; "I have pain in my 
 heart. You look like a witch. Why do you keep 
 me waiting ? You have upset me, and even that ass 
 Soper said I was not to be excited." 
 
 Lucretia was motionless. She rallied, saying: 
 "The cup is too full. I I made a mistake. I will 
 pour some out." 
 
 "Nonsense ! You look as if you were really going 
 to poison me." He laughed feebly. "Case of ante- 
 cedent remorse ? ' ' For a moment he was his former 
 self; the fine, old, high-bred face lighted up, well 
 pleased, as he added: "Lucretia is a fatal name. I 
 never thought of it before. A name to hang any 
 woman. There was the Borgia, and " 
 
 She broke in abruptly, terrified: 
 
 "Why do you talk so? You frighten me." She 
 moved a step away, the glass in her hand.
 
 CIECUMSTANCE 491 
 
 ' ' Stuff ! " he said. ' ' Give me the medicine. What 
 on earth is the matter ? " He put out his hand. 
 
 "No," she said. 
 
 He stood up. 
 
 "I will have it." 
 
 "Please, sir, sit down. Take care. You will spill 
 it. You are excited. You shall have it in a mo- 
 ment." 
 
 "I want it now. Do you hear? Every one bul- 
 lies me. ' ' He caught her arm, and, being still strong, 
 snatched at the glass, crying : ' ' Give it to me. ' ' She 
 pushed him back, and the wine fell over his shirt- 
 front. 
 
 Suddenly he grew white. His face twitched, his 
 eyes rolled from side to side. He exclaimed: "Oh, 
 my heart ! ' ' With a low, hoarse cry, the final 
 wail of pain, he fell back, shook all over, and was 
 dead. 
 
 For a moment Lucretia stood appalled. Then she 
 staggered backward, away from him, still looking at 
 the changing face. She threw out on the floor what 
 little was left in the cup, which she dropped into her 
 pocket. Casting a look of horror at the gray, fallen 
 head, the large, inert body, but a moment ago alive 
 and angry, she seized the bell-pull and rang it vio- 
 lently. 
 
 As she ran to the door, she met Mary Fairthorne 
 and her sister. 
 
 ' ' He is dead ! He is dead ! I was reading to him ! 
 All of a sudden he cried out, 'My heart! my heart!' 
 Oh, send for a doctor, quick, quick ! ' ' 
 
 "It is useless," said Margaret. "Oh, Mary, he is
 
 492 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 gone! He is gone! He is dead! Stay here with 
 Mary, Mrs. Hunter 
 
 "I cannot," she said. She had an intense terror 
 of the dead. 
 
 "I will stay alone," said Mary. "Run, Madge, 
 and send for Dr. Archer, Soper, any one. Send at 
 once, but it is useless. My poor old uncle ! Ah, how 
 good you were to me ! " The latter days were for- 
 gotten. She threw herself on her knees beside him, 
 overcome with grief. 
 
 The scared servants came to the door, huddled in 
 a group. Mary rose and gave some quiet orders. 
 The dead man was carried into his chamber and 
 laid on the bed. 
 
 Mrs. Hunter had gone to her own room. She 
 threw herself on a lounge, limp and weak. Pres- 
 ently she got up, and, finding a flask, drank a long 
 draught of the brandy. In a little while she felt 
 better. 
 
 ' ' What an escape ! What an escape ! ' ' She got up, 
 washed out the cup and emptied the half-filled vial 
 of aconite out of the window. Next she carefully 
 removed the label and rinsed the bottle. After this 
 she lay down again, and, with a sense of entire re- 
 lief, fell into thought. 
 
 "I must ask to stay to the funeral. That will be 
 best and mourning? I suppose I must. It is 
 rather a waste, but, after all, it becomes me. What 
 an escape ! ' ' 
 
 In the evening she wrote a note : 
 
 " DEAR Miss FAIRTHORNE : I had meant to leave on Wednes- 
 day not to return. I had not told your uncle. You and I
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 493 
 
 have not been friends, and perhaps my own unfortunate 
 temperament has been at fault. That I was useful and 
 devoted to your uncle you know. May I not ask the privilege 
 of remaining for his funeral? 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 " LUCRETIA HUNTER." 
 
 Mary read it and wrote in reply: 
 
 " I see no objection. M. F." 
 
 When, three days later, they assembled in the little 
 graveyard of St. David's Church, Lucretia, tall and 
 handsome, in deep black, came last to the grave, 
 looked down, threw in a handful of lilies of the val- 
 ley and went away to the station. 
 
 Two weeks later, as Grace was on his way to dine 
 with the Swanwicks, a quiet family dinner, he saw 
 Archer on the far side of the street. He crossed over 
 and joined him. As they went on, Archer asked: 
 "What day did Knell wood sail?" 
 
 "Yesterday. He changed his steamer and has 
 waited. I do not know why. ' ' 
 
 "It would be strange if he were to come upon 
 Mrs. Hunter and poor little Miss Kitty in Europe." 
 
 "When," returned Grace, "I chanced to say to 
 him that she had gone to join Mrs. Hunter and was 
 going abroad with her, he said, 'I trust that we shall 
 not meet.' ' 
 
 "It has troubled Miss Fairthorne," said Archer, 
 "more than it has Mrs. Swan wick. Harry went 
 after Miss Kitty to New York, but she was very un-
 
 494 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 pleasant and perfectly under Mrs. Hunter's control. 
 It was useless." 
 
 ' ' I should think that a threat to contest that amaz- 
 ing codicil would bring Mrs. Hunter to terms." 
 
 "Yes," said Archer, "it might, but Miss Kitty has 
 the obstinacy of the weak, and, besides that, the 
 family would not willingly act against Mr. Fair- 
 thorne's will. On the whole, they are wise. You, 
 of course, know that he left Miss Morrow, to our 
 surprise, only as much as he left Mrs. Hunter, and 
 then divided his large estate between Mrs. Swanwick 
 and Miss Mary." 
 
 "I heard as much. What becomes of his auto- 
 graphs?" 
 
 "Thereby hangs a rather queer story. They are 
 left to the university. In making a valuation of 
 them, the experts found that a good many of those 
 lately acquired and set down at high figures were of 
 more than doubtful authenticity, some of them ob- 
 vious forgeries." 
 
 "Mrs. Hunter again," said Grace, laughing. 
 
 "Possibly," said Archer, "or probably. A word 
 as to Blount, Mr. Grace." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Do not help him too much. Don't make life too 
 easy for him." 
 
 "I owe him much, Archer; more than you know." 
 
 "And yet, I think I am right. He has a very 
 stoutly held belief in himself." 
 
 "That is so. I will keep it in mind. But the 
 problem of how to help and not to harm is not al- 
 ways an easy one. ' ' For a moment he did not speak.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 495 
 
 Then he said: "How strangely influential are the 
 accidents of life, the circumstance that seems at the 
 time so small." 
 
 "And character, as it meets them, and bends, or 
 breaks, or stands fast, ' ' said Archer. 
 
 "True, true," returned Grace, "but here we are. 
 There are Miss Clementina and Miss Mary on the 
 steps. I thought we were late." 
 
 A few months later Grace received a letter from 
 Knellwood : 
 
 " MY DEAR SIR : What you say of Archer's opinion and ad- 
 vice is very pleasant to hear. What little I can do for you I do 
 every day. May it help you. 
 
 "I enjoyed our dear old cathedrals, and then wandered on 
 to the Continent. At Monaco to my surprise I saw, unseen of 
 them, Mrs. Hunter and Craig as they came out of the door of 
 the gambling saloon. She was ghastly white. Had she lost 
 money? I do not know. He was a bloated, ill-dressed, flabby 
 wreck. Miss Morrow was not with them, and I left that even- 
 ing. Can nothing be done to rescue the poor girl? 
 
 " I wish to be remembered to all who care for me. 
 "Yours truly, 
 
 "CYRIL KNELLWOOD."
 
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