m 
 
 CONFIDENT 
 
 RfflC?! 
 
 
 (fctlji 
 
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 BY 
 
 BRANDER 
 
 MATTHEWS
 
 "SO ABSOKBKl) WAS UK IN TIIKSE THOUGHTS"
 
 A Confident To-Morrow 
 
 IHovel of Tftew I?orfc 
 
 BRANDER MATTHEWS 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 VIGNETTES OK MANHATTAN" "HIS FATHER S SON 
 "OUTLINES IN LOCAL COLOR" ETC. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 BY WILLIAM L. JACOBS 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 IQOO
 
 cC 
 
 BY BRANDBR MATTHEWS. 
 
 OUTLINES IN LOCAL COLOR. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, %\ 50. 
 ASPECTS OF FICTION. Essays. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1 50. 
 TALES OF FANTASY AND FACT. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1 25. 
 VIGNETTES OF MANHATTAN. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1 50. 
 HIS FATHER S SON. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1 50. 
 STUDIES OF THE STAGE. With Portrait. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00. 
 AMERICANISMS AND BRITICISMS, with Other Essays on Other Isms. 
 
 With Portrait. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00. 
 THE STORY OF A STORY, and Other Stories. Illustrated. ISmo, 
 
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 THIS PICTURE AND THAT. A Comedy. Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, 
 
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 IN THE VESTIBULE LIMITED. A Story. Illustrated. 82mo, Cloth, 
 
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 NKW YORK AND LONDON: 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS. 
 
 Copyright, 1899, by HARPER & BROTHERS. 
 
 All riyhtt reierttd.
 
 THIS STORY OF A GREAT CITY 
 
 Is ffnscribeD to 
 
 A GOOD CITIZEN 
 
 RICHARD WATSON GILDER
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 SO ABSORBED WAS HE IN THESE THOUGHTS " . Frontispiece 
 THE PANORAMA OF NEW YORK UNROLLED 
 
 ITSELF" Facing p. 2 
 
 IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ONE WOMAN "... " 72 
 
 THE HEAD - WAITER BROUGHT THEM A BOTTLE 
 
 OF CLARET" " 142 
 
 THEY HAD THE ARCHWAY ALL TO THEM 
 SELVES " " 290
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 at last the train stood still, and the impa 
 tient passengers poured forth and pressed forward as 
 though a prize had been offered to the one who should 
 first reach the ferry-boat, Frank Sartain found himself 
 hastening ahead as eagerly as any of the others. He 
 was glad of a chance to stretch his legs again, for he 
 was weary with the two nights spent on the cars, and 
 with the long intervening day. He felt draggled and 
 dirty from his journey ; and as the procession of pas 
 sengers came out into the open air, he drew a long 
 breath, as though to cleanse his lungs. A breeze blew 
 in from the river, damp but not chill, considering the 
 time of the year. Sartain wondered if it were always 
 as mild as this in New York in the middle of October. 
 He had not been East for several years ; and even 
 at best his acquaintance with the great city was con 
 fined to two or three chance visits when the college 
 glee club had come down to give its annual concert. 
 And now he was entering New York to stay ; it was 
 in New York hereafter that he was to wage the battle 
 of life, and to fight his way to the front. He looked
 
 2 A CONFIDENT TO-MOEBOW 
 
 at the men who were hurrying along briskly by his 
 side ; and he wondered whether he should ever see 
 one of them again, and Avhether any of them would be 
 competitors of his at some future day. 
 
 Although stairways led to the ground-floor of the 
 ferry-house, the main stream of passengers swept along 
 on the upper platform, which communicated with each 
 of the ferry-slips. As a newspaper-man Sartain had 
 kept up with the changes and improvements of New 
 York, and though he had never seen a two-story fer 
 ry-boat, he was not surprised when he beheld little 
 drawbridges lowered at the ends of the platform on 
 which he and his fellow - travellers were massed, so 
 that they could cross directly to the upper deck of 
 the boat. 
 
 There the panorama of New York unrolled itself 
 before the young man s questioning eyes. He drew a 
 long breath again; and unconsciously he set his teeth 
 with determination. He knew that the promised land 
 lay before him ; and that whether he should ever pos 
 sess it or not depended upon his own strength and his 
 own courage. He felt himself girded for the combat, 
 and he was eager for the onset. He likened himself 
 to Eugene de Rastignac, gazing bitterly down on Paris 
 the afternoon of old Groriot s funeral, and then going 
 to dine with the dead man s daughter ; and he wist 
 fully wondered if he were ever to meet with contrasts 
 as dramatic in New York as Rastignac in Paris. 
 
 The rain, after racing with the train across the Alle- 
 ghanies the day before, had reached the Hudson first, 
 and had spent itself before Frank Sartain arrived in 
 sight of the river. The sky overhead was now flecked 
 with scattered clouds ; and the stern and serrated
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKKOW 3 
 
 profile of New York stood out against a gray bank low 
 on the horizon. 
 
 As the ferry-boat started on its brief voyage across 
 the river, the sun came out hesitatingly and shone in 
 the young man s eyes. He turned to the right and 
 beheld the stalwart figure of Liberty rising from the 
 broad waters of the bay. As far as he could see, craft 
 were in motion ; sloops were slipping up the river with 
 the wind and the tide in their favor ; spiteful tugs 
 were spitting steam as they darted in every direction ; 
 ferry-boats of all colors were crossing each other s 
 tracks incessantly ; huge floats loaded down with 
 freight-cars were sliding slowly from the Jersey shore 
 to the Long Island ; through all this seeming con 
 fusion an immense ocean -steamer was majestically 
 threading its way to its pier a mile farther up the 
 stream. As he looked at these vessels of one sort or 
 another, all steadily at their regular work and all serv 
 ing the city that lay spread out before him in its 
 sullen might, Sartain was seized with a sudden sense 
 of the immense power of New York. Hopeful as he 
 was by temperament and by force of youth and health 
 and energy, there went over him a momentary thrill 
 of doubt and loneliness. Who was he that he should 
 dare to go down into that arena, to fight his way to 
 the front all alone ? 
 
 He was a sturdy young fellow as he stood there in 
 the front of the ferry-boat, pulling at the point of his 
 brown beard. His eyes were brown also, and gentle 
 and even appealing. But the eyebrows were resolute 
 and straight, and the chin was firm ; and so was the 
 mouth hidden by the drooping brown mustache. His 
 face was thin, and his complexion sallow, although
 
 4 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 this may have been due to his two nights in the cars. 
 He wore a loose suit of clothes that did not fit him ; 
 and although not old, the trousers were already a little 
 baggy at the knees. 
 
 Then he straightened himself up, and his glance 
 swept the length of the city that lay before him. The 
 glare of the sun was gilding the water that washed the 
 foot of the Battery ; and behind the massive profile of 
 New York the bank of leaden cloud was already lighter 
 than it had been when the ferry-boat started. As he 
 looked and noted how one tall building lifted its slim 
 shaft in air, and how another had heaved its huge bulk 
 upward, while yet a third spread aloft the spider s-web 
 of its incompleted steel framework, he thought that it 
 would not greatly task the imagination to liken New 
 York to a walled city with towering forts and broad 
 citadels thrust up squarely, and with an arm of the 
 salt sea for its moat. He wondered again how he 
 should fare within its gates, and how long it would 
 take him to win his spurs in its tilt-yard. Whatever 
 the result of the tourney, he was going forward boldly 
 and blithely, and with no glance backward. 
 
 He recalled Arthur Pendennis rolling up to London 
 on the top of a coach, a proper enough mode of entry 
 for the future author of the romance of Walter Lor 
 raine, but far too old-fashioned for a veritist like Sar- 
 tain, who had in his trunk the manuscript of a realistic 
 novel, Dust and Ashes. 
 
 When the ferry-boat entered the slip on the New 
 York side, the passengers revealed the same impatience 
 to get off that they had shown to get on a few minutes 
 earlier. Sartain looked at the men and women about 
 him, and he could see no reason why they should all
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKEOW 5 
 
 hurry thus. It was then about half-past nine, and 
 there were few laboring people or factory hands on the 
 boat ; for such as these the hour was too late. The 
 men were apparently lawyers or bank clerks or the 
 like, not compelled to be at their offices before ten 
 o clock. The women were well dressed, so it seemed 
 to Sartain far better dressed than the women were 
 whom he had left behind him in Topeka ; and, while 
 some of them may have been on their way to their 
 desks, the most of them struck him as coming to the 
 city merely to shop or to visit, or perhaps as it was 
 Saturday to go to the theatre in the afternoon. Yet 
 they were all rushing ahead, as though every minute 
 had to be paid for separately. Impatiently they pressed 
 through the ferry-house, crossing the street on a long 
 covered bridge, and descending at last to the sidewalk 
 by a twisting stairway inside the house on the corner. 
 
 When Sartain came out on the street below and saw 
 how dirty it was, and how slippery with mud, his 
 opinion of the city fell. The needless ugliness of the 
 surroundings, the sordid grimness of the water-front 
 generally, the shabbiness in particular of the stands 
 that backed up against some of the buildings, all de 
 tracted not a little from the impression of dignified 
 strength which New York had made upon him when 
 seen from afar. 
 
 Nobody else seemed to remark upon the meanness of 
 the thoroughfare perhaps because nobody cared to 
 give it any attention. Everybody pushed forward, up 
 the street towards Broadway, stumbling on sticky side 
 walks which were crowded with projecting show-cases 
 and with obtrusive fruit-stands. By a resolute effort 
 Sartain slackened his pace. There was no need that
 
 6 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKKOW 
 
 he should hurry. He thought to let the other passen 
 gers by his boat get ahead of him, so that he should 
 not be urged forward in this frantic fashion, so he loi 
 tered by a window in which a man in white coat and 
 cap was baking buckwheat-cakes over a gas griddle. 
 But though he lingered there five minutes, and then 
 wasted two or three more gazing into a florist s door 
 way at the potted chrysanthemums and at the bulbs 
 sprouting in damp gravel, there was no slackening in 
 the flood of passers-by. Soon he recognized the folly 
 of his attempt, realizing that the stream of humanity 
 flows ceaselessly through the streets of the great city, 
 and that the crowds which pour in every morning, by 
 ferry, by rail, and on foot, lose themselves immediately 
 in the immense current of the metropolis. 
 
 Then he went up the street towards Broadway, and 
 under one darkening elevated-railroad track, and then 
 under another ; the sun beamed forth again, and the 
 sky above was blue ; and he quickened his gait and 
 walked as swiftly as any of the New Yorkers who jos 
 tled along by his side. The noise of the city rose all 
 about him like the call of some strange beast, hungry 
 and insatiable, and insisting upon its human sacrifice 
 night and morning. It was not a shrill cry, nor a 
 petulant ; it was a deep, reverberating roar, appalling 
 when its significance was seized. , Yet nobody noticed 
 it except Sartain, as he stood at the corner of Broad 
 way and looked up and down. In his ears it rang so 
 loud that it almost forced him to raise his hands and 
 try vainly to shut it out. Then he straightened him 
 self again he was doing his best to break off a habit 
 of stooping; he drew a long breath once more, and 
 resolutely set aside such idle fancies. For a deter-
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOBBOW 7 
 
 mined realist, as he knew himself to be, it was a vain 
 imagination, and most misleading, to liken a modern 
 city of America to an unknown monster of mythology. 
 
 The boarding-house where he had engaged a hall 
 bedroom was in Irving Place, only a couple of blocks 
 from Broadway. It was one of the brown-stone, high- 
 stoop, four -story houses which make the middle of 
 New York stupidly monotonous. Sartain had to ring 
 the door-bell three times before any one came to let 
 him in. 
 
 At last the door was opened by a red-faced, middle- 
 aged Irish woman, who told him that the landlady had 
 gone out to do her marketing for Sunday, but that his 
 room was all ready for him. Then she walked wearily 
 up-stairs before him. A pungent odor of boiled cab 
 bage went up with them also. 
 
 He was shown into the front hall bedroom on the 
 third floor the little room that was to be his home 
 for a year or more. Although bare and untidy, it 
 was fairly clean; and there was a bath-room on the 
 same landing. When the rheumatic attendant had 
 limped down to her kitchen again, he looked about 
 him and mentally fitted his belongings into the con 
 fined space. He was glad to see that there was a little 
 table in the window, at which he could write ; and the 
 gas-jet was near to it. 
 
 Within an hour the expressman brought his trunk. 
 He took out the manuscript of Dust and Ashes, reread 
 two or three of the chapters lovingly and made a few 
 corrections in pencil. Then he unpacked his books 
 and his writing materials, and arranged his possessions 
 as best he could. By the time he had got everything
 
 8 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 settled it was one o clock, and a bell down below rang 
 for luncheon. 
 
 As he went down-stairs he thought of the Maison 
 Vauquier, and wondered whether he should have a 
 Vautrin for a fellow-boarder. Admirer of Balzac as 
 he was, he could not but admit that a convict in dis 
 guise was not a probable inmate of any boarding- 
 house ; and it struck him more forcibly than ever be 
 fore that not a little romanticism sometimes colored 
 the great Parisian novelist s realism. 
 
 The dining-room was in the front basement, a little 
 below the level of the sidewalk. Down the centre 
 there was one long table with ten or a dozen places, 
 and in each of the two windows were little round 
 tables with three chairs. He found that his seat was 
 at the main table, opposite a mature and yellow-haired 
 lady who gave lessons in elocution, and between a 
 portly old gentleman who looked as though he might 
 be president of a bank and a pert young man in a 
 bicycle suit. To these neighbors the landlady, a lank 
 and washed-out widow, introduced him; and before 
 he had eaten his helping of the corn-beef and cabbage 
 which constituted the luncheon they had become very 
 friendly, had told him much about themselves, and 
 had asked him many leading questions about himself. 
 They also gave him abundant information about the 
 other boarders, few of whom, it appeared, were ever at 
 home for lunch. 
 
 "You ve come to the right house if you want So 
 ciety. Hasn t he, Mrs. Greer ?" said the bicycle 
 young man, appealing to the landlady. " Why, there 
 ain t a Sunday in the month scarcely when you won t 
 see Miss De Lancey s name in the Gossip of the Gay
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORKOW 9 
 
 World ; and Mr. Wornum, here, he had a very respon 
 sible position down in Wall Street and he d be there 
 now, only the firm busted last spring. And as for me 
 well, if you want to see life, what 1 can t show you in 
 this old town ain t worth looking at, that s all ! And 
 it ain t a song-and-dance I m giving you either." 
 
 When the new-comer rose from the table the bicycle 
 young man hastily rolled his napkin, thrust it into a 
 bone ring, and followed Sartain into the hall. 
 
 " Say," he began, lowering his voice, " I ll give you 
 a steer. Don t let old Wornum touch you." 
 
 " Touch me !" repeated Sartain, a little doubtfully. 
 
 " That s what I say. Don t let him touch you for a 
 dollar. Last summer there was a young fellow from 
 Frisco had the room you are in, and before he d been 
 here a week old Wornum had pulled his leg for ten. 
 That s why I m giviii you a pointer see ?" and the 
 bicycle young man laughed pleasantly. " You keep 
 all your roll in your own pocket, and maybe I ll want 
 to borrow some of it myself some day !" 
 
 After luncheon Sartain smoked a cigar in Union 
 Square, observing the procession of city life as it passed 
 before his eyes. A little before three o clock he walked 
 to Fifth Avenue to the huge building where were the 
 offices of Carington & Company, the publishers for 
 whom he was to go to work on Monday morning. He 
 found the offices on the tenth floor, but they were 
 locked ; and on one of the glass doors, which bore the 
 name of the firm, a card announced: "We close at 
 Two, Saturdays." 
 
 When Sartain had descended again to the avenue he 
 noticed that crowds lined the sidewalk as if in expect 
 ancy. He asked a policeman the reason why, and was
 
 10 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKROW 
 
 told that all the National Guard of the city was going 
 to parade that afternoon. 
 
 It was a beautiful day, after a night of rain, and the 
 broad avenue was brilliant in the October sunshine. 
 Before he reached Fortieth Street he heard the martial 
 rattle of the drum. When the cadet gray of the Sev 
 enth came in sight and was recognized by the crowd 
 and cheered, Sartain s pulse beat faster and his heart 
 throbbed within him. He recalled Theodore Win- 
 throp s account of the way that regiment had marched 
 down Broadway more than thirty years before ; and he 
 scanned the files as they passed, to see if he could dis 
 cover a man old enough to have been in the ranks 
 then, a comrade of the young author who fell before 
 his first book had been published. Stirring as the 
 warlike spectacle was, to Sartain its appeal was doubled 
 by his recollection that the earlier march of the Sev 
 enth had its adequate record in literature. 
 
 He continued his walk up the avenue. He was go 
 ing, by appointment, to call upon the distinguished 
 novelist, Meredith Vivian, who had an apartment in 
 one of the immense houses which faced the southern 
 edge of the Park. 
 
 Sartain was a loyal admirer of Vivian s writings ; he 
 had a profound reverence for that novelist s delicate 
 art, for his mastery of form, for his sense of style, and 
 for his unfailing ingenuity. The young man had in 
 his pocket his letter of introduction to the elder crafts 
 man, and he knew that Mr. Vivian expected him to 
 call that afternoon ; and yet, now that the hour had 
 come, a timidity seized him and the shyness returned 
 that he hoped he had conquered. He said to himself 
 that Mr. Vivian could have no interest whatever in a
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOBBOW 11 
 
 young man who had been engaged for a few years on 
 a Kansas newspaper, even if the young man had been 
 on the editorial page, writing brevier, the last six 
 months. 
 
 Thus analyzing his feelings, Sartain walked past the 
 broad door of the stately apartment -house in which 
 Mr. Vivian lived. Then he turned and again irreso 
 lutely went beyond the entrance. At last he straight 
 ened himself, drew a long breath, and pushed through 
 the yielding glass door. 
 
 As he was about to let this door swing back he be 
 came conscious that a young lady was behind him, and 
 he held it wide open for her to pass. She acknowl 
 edged this courtesy with an inclination of the head. 
 She was slight and slim, and simply dressed. She 
 wore a thick veil, so that he could not see her face in 
 the semi-obscurity of the hall. He remarked that her 
 walk was singularly graceful. 
 
 She entered the elevator just before him, and he 
 thought she glanced at him curiously when he asked 
 the elevator-boy on Avhich floor Mr. Vivian lived. 
 
 The lad stopped the elevator at the sixth landing, 
 and declared that Mr. Vivian s door was on the right. 
 
 When Sartain had pushed the electric button, he 
 heard the elevator gate clang, and he discovered that 
 the young lady was standing by his side. Then it 
 struck him that perhaps she was one of Vivian s 
 daughters, and a sudden hope sprang up within him 
 that he might make her acquaintance, possibly that 
 very afternoon. 
 
 The door was opened by a neat -looking maid in 
 black, with a white apron and a white cap. Wh_en 
 she saw the young lady standing there, she smiled and
 
 12 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 said, " They are waiting for you, Miss Dircks ; I ve 
 just taken in the tea-kettle/ 
 
 Sartain caught himself regretting that the young 
 lady was not the novelist s daughter, and fearing that 
 now perhaps he might never see her again. 
 
 " Waiting for me, are they ?" she answered, and 
 the low notes of her voice charmed the young man, 
 who was listening for it. " But I am on time it s 
 only a quarter to four now." 
 
 With that she disappeared within the door ; and as 
 Sartain s eyes followed her involuntarily he saw that 
 she turned to the right. 
 
 The maid stood waiting for him to speak. 
 
 " Mr. Vivian ?" he asked, not a little embarrassed, 
 although he did not know why. 
 
 " Yes," she said, doubtfully. " What name shall I 
 say ?" 
 
 "Please give Mr. Vivian this letter," Sartain an 
 swered, "and here is my card." 
 
 She moved back so as to allow him to enter the 
 small square vestibule, and closed the door behind him. 
 Taking his card and the letter on a small salver, she 
 was turning to go when her eye fell on three or four 
 overcoats hanging on a hat-rack, and again she glanced 
 back and looked Sartain over very suspiciously, so it 
 seemed to the young man, who flushed. Then she dis 
 appeared down a long passage to the left, leaving him 
 standing alone in the vestibule. 
 
 In a minute sho returned, and there was now no 
 trace of suspicion in her manner. 
 
 "Mr. Vivian will see you," she said; "this way, 
 please," and she preceded him down the long and 
 dimly lighted corridor.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE white -capped maid led the way down the 
 gloomy passage, and Sartain followed her with hesi 
 tating steps. 
 
 Suddenly she stopped and opened a large door on 
 the left, saying, "This is Mr. Vivian s room." 
 
 Sartain paused, blinking in the glare of the sunlight 
 which came from the broad bow-window he now found 
 himself to be facing. He was standing on the thresh 
 old of a snug and cheerful library, ruddy with the 
 rays of the westering sun. A blue haze of smoke 
 filled the room, and the new-comer was conscious at 
 once of the acrid odor of Oriental tobacco. 
 
 With the features of Meredith Vivian, Sartain sup 
 posed himself to be familiar from the frequent por 
 traits printed in the periodicals ; but now he saw that 
 none of these photographs had done justice to the 
 good looks of the great novelist. He had before him 
 a handsome man of perhaps fifty, well preserved, car 
 rying himself easily, with a good figure, and so care 
 fully dressed as to suggest to Sartain that perhaps 
 the author he admired might be a bit of a dandy. 
 And this suggestion added not a little to the embar 
 rassment the young writer already felt in the presence 
 of his elder. 
 
 " I had hoped you would come earlier, Mr. Sartain,"
 
 14 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 said Vivian, as he shook hands with him heartily. 
 "We have had half a dozen authors and artists here 
 to lunch whom you might have liked to meet." 
 
 " Thank you," Sartain answered, delighted that he 
 was at last actually in conversation with the distin 
 guished man whom he had long followed from afar. 
 " Thank you," he repeated, as he twisted the end of 
 his beard a little nervously. " It was very good of you 
 to be willing to see me at all. You must have so many 
 demands on your time." 
 
 "When you have been a little while in New York," 
 the novelist returned, with a slight laugh, "you will 
 discover that busy men can always find time, and that 
 it is only idle men who never have any leisure." 
 
 " Yes," said Sartain, thoughtfully, as he turned this 
 paradox over in his mind, "I can see how that may 
 be." 
 
 "But don t let s talk any more about that," the 
 novelist declared cheerily; "I want to hear about you. 
 Here, take that chair," and he indicated to Sartain a 
 spacious leather-covered seat. "Help yourself to a 
 cigar or a cigarette and then we can chat." 
 
 While they were making ready to smoke the young 
 man had a chance again to examine the elder. AVhat 
 struck him most was the complete concordance be 
 tween the man who actually sat before him and the 
 novelist whose works he had read with pleasure and 
 whose methods he had studied for his own advantage. 
 Even the square-cut beard, carefully combed, and the 
 accurately parted hair, seemed somehow characteristic. 
 
 " Do you like these cigarettes ?" the host asked, as 
 he dropped his wax match into a little silver ash-re 
 ceiver on the table by his side. " If you would rather
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 15 
 
 have a cigar, now ?" And he indicated a box at his 
 elbow. 
 
 "Oh, I don t mind," Sartain answered, awkwardly. 
 "At least I mean this suits me very well, thank 
 you. Indeed, it isn t often I have had a chance to 
 smoke tobacco as delicate as this." 
 
 "If that s all right then," said Vivian, cordially, 
 "tell me about yourself." 
 
 "About myself ?" echoed Sartain. 
 
 "Certainly," answered the elder man, smiling whim 
 sically; " we all like to talk about ourselves, don t we ? 
 I know I do. But you are the younger; and in all 
 consultations the young men give their opinions first. 
 Who are you ? Where were you born ? What educa 
 tion have you had ? What have you done ? What do 
 you want to do ?" 
 
 " If you really care to hear about me," Sartain an 
 swered : " I think I can compact my biography into a 
 very few sentences. I was born in 1868, at Wakefield ; 
 that s a little town in Khode Island you never heard of, 
 I suppose, but it s only three miles back from Narra- 
 gansett Pier." 
 
 " Then I have driven through it," said Vivian. "It s 
 a pretty place, as I remember it, and it looked pros 
 perous. Are your parents living there now ?" 
 
 "My father died before I was ten," the young man 
 answered, "and he left my mother little more than 
 the house we lived in. She took boarders in summer, 
 and we were able to make both ends meet. When I 
 was sixteen my mother died. My uncle settled up our 
 affairs for me, and he was lucky enough to sell the old 
 house the next summer. After the payment of the 
 mortgage I had about a thousand dollars, all told ; and
 
 16 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 to my satisfaction I found that this would be nearly 
 enough to take me through Brown. I was in the class 
 of 89." 
 
 "I think you look more mature than most men do 
 so short a time after graduation/ declared Vivian. 
 
 " Perhaps I am a little more mature," the young 
 man admitted. " But then I have had more experi 
 ence of life than most of my classmates. I played on 
 the second nine two years, and I sang in the glee club, 
 and I was one of the editors of the paper ; yet all that 
 was nothing compared with the work I did in the 
 summer. Then I was a hack-driver at the Pier." 
 
 Here Sartain paused for a moment. Vivian looked 
 at him keenly through the smoke of his cigar but said 
 nothing. 
 
 " Of course that wasn t like driving a hack here in 
 New York but I didn t like it any better, I assure 
 you," Sartain explained. " Still, I needed money, and 
 that was as good a way to make it as any other. My 
 uncle used to let me take his surrey three or four 
 afternoons in the week, and I would go over to the 
 Pier. Generally I managed to pick up two or three 
 people who wanted to drive to Point Judith or to see 
 the Gilbert Stuart place and so I contrived to make 
 about a hundred dollars every summer." 
 
 "That was an experience, certainly," said Vivian. 
 "And I suppose your fares treated you just as the 
 Summer Boarder always treats the Native they acted 
 just as if you had neither eyes nor ears ?" 
 
 "I think that most of them did not consider me 
 any more than they did the horse," Sartain answered, 
 and his cheeks flushed. 
 
 " Yes," Vivian commented, " you must have had
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 17 
 
 an invaluable opportunity to discover how the other 
 half lives the other half that spends its summers in 
 sea-side hotels. There s copy in it, of course." 
 
 Sartain laughed a little bitterly. " I didn t like it 
 overmuch at the time, I can assure you, Mr. Vivian," 
 he declared, hotly. "More than once I ve felt like 
 throwing back the pay in the face of the contemptible 
 little snob who had hired me. I think it was that 
 summer driving that opened my eyes to the hollow- 
 ness of our boasted civilization !" 
 
 " I can well imagine that it might tend to do that," 
 said the novelist, dryly. 
 
 "I know that I have detested Society people ever 
 since !" Sartain continued. " I couldn t help feeling 
 that there was something wrong in a social organiza 
 tion which tried to make me the inferior of a vulgar 
 old woman who happened to have inherited a lot of 
 money, when I was earning my living honestly and 
 when her money was the result of her father s dis 
 honesty I" 
 
 " I suppose that sometimes the money of your fare 
 was rightfully come by ?" suggested Vivian, mildly. 
 
 "Sometimes it must have been, of course," the 
 young man admitted; "and sometimes I was treated 
 not only like a human being, but like a gentleman. 
 In fact, it was not often that people were discourteous, 
 and I don t suppose I ought to complain. But I had 
 thought that here in America all men were created 
 free and equal, and it hurt me when I found that 
 other people deemed me an inferior other people 
 whom" I myself held as my inferiors." 
 
 " Probably I should not have liked that any better 
 than you," said Vivian "at your age, that is. At
 
 18 A CONFIDENT TO-MOEKOW 
 
 mine, now, I have come to the conclusion that it is 
 things like that which make human nature such an 
 amusing spectacle." 
 
 Sartain was a little surprised that the novelist should 
 treat a serious theme thus lightly. He was about to 
 protest, but he changed his mind and held his tongue. 
 
 Apparently the host read the young man s thoughts 
 on his face. 
 
 "As a good citizen," he continued, " I denounce 
 the snob, of course, and I stand ready to command his 
 instant execution and even to be one of the firing 
 squad. But as a novelist, now, I can t help thinking 
 that this will be a monstrous world when the millen 
 nium comes, and all men are perfect." 
 
 Again Sartain, who believed in the immediate im 
 provement of society, found himself struggling be 
 tween his admiration for Vivian and his desire to bear 
 testimony to the faith that was in him. Again he was 
 silent merely from inability to say what he wanted to 
 say, as he felt that it ought to be said. 
 
 "But don t let me check the ardor of youth," the 
 novelist went on, "and let me be a warning to you. If 
 you mean to be a reformer and I suppose that there 
 is nothing more beautiful in youth than its willing 
 ness to lead the forlorn-hope and to die in the last 
 ditch if you mean to be a reformer, as I have said, 
 you must not let your sense of humor get the better 
 of you. You must take it by the throat while it is in 
 the gristle and strangle it. A highly developed sense 
 of humor will prevent a man from making a fool of 
 himself and all the progress of the world is due to 
 men who didn t care how foolish they looked, so long 
 as they gained their point."
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKROW 19 
 
 The elder man paused as though for a reply ; Sar- 
 tain turned over in his mind this last proposition, and 
 declared that he saw what Mr. Vivian meant. 
 
 "But you didn t come here to have me discuss the 
 psychology of improvement," the host went on. " What 
 have you been doing since you left college ?" 
 
 " I ve been on a paper in Topeka the Tribune," Sar- 
 tain responded. " It was my ambition to be a writer, 
 and I supposed then that newspaper-work would be a 
 good way of beginning." 
 
 " And you are not so sure of it now ?" the novelist 
 asked "that is, if I may judge from your man 
 ner." 
 
 "Well," began the young man, "I don t regret the 
 experience, of course I ve had a chance to see all sorts 
 of things, and I ve mixed with the people, and I ve been 
 forced to study the current of events but I ve come to 
 the conclusion slowly that a daily newspaper is a de 
 vouring monster, and that I had better get out of its 
 maw while there is yet time." 
 
 The novelist smiled gently, and said, " I should be 
 inclined to think that three or four years on a Kansas 
 daily might lead to the discovery that there is a certain 
 difference between journalism and literature." 
 
 "It didn t take me long to find that out," Sartain 
 declared, grimly, "and I ve been trying to get away 
 for the last eighteen months not that I don t like the 
 Topeka people, for I do, and I sympathize with them, 
 and I cannot understand the stupidity of the Eastern 
 papers that are always misrepresenting Kansas. But I 
 suppose the editors have to take their orders from the 
 men who own the newspapers ; and I believe most of 
 the New York papers are owned in Wall Street."
 
 20 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 "And yet yon are now going on one of these New 
 York papers, I suppose ?" Vivian queried, quietly. 
 
 "I ve been able to get out of journalism," Sartain 
 explained. " Carington & Company, the publishers, 
 here in New York, are getting out a big subscription- 
 book ; it s to deal with popular superstitions of all sorts, 
 and with the births and deaths of great men, and with 
 the dates of great events it is to be called the Amer 
 ican Boole of Days, and I am to edit it for them. I 
 begin there the day after to-morrow. I shall make 
 enough to live on, and the labor won t be so exhaust 
 ing as not to leave me with time for my own work. 
 Now in Topeka I had to grind out so much stuff that 
 even when I had the chance, it was very hard for me 
 to buckle down to anything of my own." 
 
 " What did you do on the paper there ?" Vivian 
 asked. 
 
 "I did everything, first and last," Sartain answered, 
 " except set type and canvass for ads. I ve written the 
 whole editorial page for a month at a time. I ve done 
 the theatrical notices, and I ve attended conventions of 
 all sorts. I always did the book reviews, of course. 
 At first I used to read the books carefully and make 
 up my mind slowly I don t think I am ever very 
 quick in making up my mind. Then I would write 
 two or three columns sometimes about the volumes 
 that seemed to me best worth while, especially about 
 your books, and about the books that deal with the 
 problems of human progress. But I had to give all 
 that up after three or four months ; the pressure was 
 too much for me. I hadn t time to read anything, or 
 to think about what I read, or about anything else ; all 
 I had time to do was to write. Now, as I look back on
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 21 
 
 it, I do not see how I was ever able to get my novel 
 started. I know there wasn t a page of it written be 
 fore two in the morning, when I was always dead tired 
 and I ve fallen asleep more than once before I had 
 written a stick." 
 
 " So you have written a novel?" cried Vivian. "What 
 is it about ? Is it a study of life in Kansas ? That 
 would be very interesting, and you would have the 
 field all to yourself, as yet, I think." 
 
 Sartain was suddenly conscious of the temerity of 
 his choice of subject and of the inadequacy of his 
 equipment. 
 
 " No," he admitted at last, "it isn t a Kansas story. 
 In fact, I had planned it before I went West. It is 
 well it is an attempt to follow in your footsteps, 
 Mr. Vivian. It is a study of life in New York." And 
 as he made this explanation he acknowledged to him 
 self his presumption in venturing upon so great a 
 theme with so little knowledge. In his sensitiveness 
 he thought he detected a smile hovering upon the face 
 of his host. 
 
 "You have chosen a most fascinating subject," said 
 Vivian, simply. "Some day when we know each 
 other better you must ask me what the old pope, 
 Pius IX., used to say to visitors to Eome when they 
 were presented to him." 
 
 " I suppose it must seem absurd to you," Sartain 
 began to explain hesitatingly, " but I think you ought to 
 be lenient with me you, at least since what tempted 
 me was the greatness of the opportunity New York 
 affords to the novelist, as you have proved in your 
 own stories in A Sorry Inheritance, especially." 
 
 " Don t suppose that I am insensible to the flattery,"
 
 22 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 Vivian responded, with a light laugh ; "but you see I 
 have to write about New York, since New York is all I 
 know. I haven t the advantage of knowing Kansas ; 
 now don t think that is irony ! It isn t, I assure you. 
 I sincerely wish I had your knowledge not only of 
 Topeka and its people, but also of Narragansett Pier, 
 seen from the point of view of a Native. Really I am 
 inclined to envy your possession of material so valu 
 able and so fresh." 
 
 The manner of the elder man was kindly, and the 
 younger took heart. 
 
 " It was my observation of Society people at the Pier 
 which suggested to me the writing of Dust and Ashes," 
 he declared. 
 
 "Dust and Ashes is a striking title," Vivian com 
 mented; "but it seems to suggest that your view of 
 Society in New York is a little jaundiced, doesn t it ?" 
 
 Sartain looked up and faced him sturdily. 
 
 " It is the view of a man who has driven a hack at 
 Narragansett Pier/ he answered, " and who has lived 
 for years in Kansas." 
 
 " I see," said the elder novelist, " and I can sympa 
 thize with you, I think. But I think also that the 
 view which seemed to you natural enough, first in 
 Rhode Island and then in Kansas, Avill change only too 
 swiftly now that you are here in New York itself." 
 
 " I arrived only this morning," the young man con 
 fessed, " and I have discovered that already. Some of 
 my views have dissolved now. But I shall get others 
 in place of these soon enough. I ve been staring all 
 the way up Fifth Avenue staring like a hayseed." 
 
 " And how does the city impress you now ?" asked 
 the New Yorker.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 23 
 
 "I don t know yet at least, I haven t been able to 
 formulate what I feel," was the answer. " I am con 
 scious, I think, of a semi-hostility the city seems so 
 ugly, so noisy, so mighty, so overwhelming ! It strikes 
 me that a man must be very big not to be lost here in 
 the immensity of it." 
 
 " I don t suppose it is easy to be somebody in a place 
 where a man doesn t always know his next-door neigh 
 bor s name, and where he isn t always aware how many 
 children the people have who live across the way," said 
 the novelist. " But a great city minds its own busi 
 ness, which is more than a little village ever does ; 
 and a man can be alone, if he chooses ; and he can 
 live his own life here. I won t say New York is ever 
 really friendly to the new-comer it is too self-satisfied 
 for that, and too much absorbed in its own affairs ; 
 but, on the other hand, I don t think it is ever hostile, 
 as you have fancied. Indifferent, rather indifferent 
 is as strong an adjective as I should use." 
 
 " I suppose you have the same love for New York 
 that Dickens had for London and that Daudet has 
 for Paris ?" Sartain suggested. 
 
 "1 must not let you compare me with the mas 
 ters," Vivian smilingly deprecated; "but I suppose 
 my feeling is like theirs in kind, at least. And even 
 if I had no lively affection for the city, I could not 
 help finding it unfailingly stimulating. And so will 
 you." 
 
 " I do now," returned Sartain. 
 
 "And I will say more," Vivian went on. "I con- 
 tend that a great city is the best university that no 
 matter what college you took your degree at, New 
 York is in itself a post-graduate course."
 
 24 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 "Doesn t the city sometimes charge a very heavy 
 fee for its diploma ?" asked Sartain, slyly. 
 
 "Not only that/ admitted Vivian,, "but the exam 
 ination is very severe, and very few of those who ma 
 triculate are able to keep up with the class. Let us 
 hope you will graduate summa cum laude. And if you 
 think an older student can give you any advice worth 
 having, don t hesitate to ask for it." 
 
 Sartain at once wondered whether it would be fair 
 to request Vivian to read the manuscript of Dust and 
 Ashes. He was in two minds about his own book ; one 
 day he would think that as soon as it was published it 
 would be greeted at once as the Great American novel, 
 and on the morrow he would fear that the labor spent 
 on it had been wasted. 
 
 " I should like your advice/ he began, conquering 
 his timidity with an effort. 
 
 " I will give you my Five Good Rules for the Young 
 Man of Letters/ Vivian returned, smiling, " the result 
 of many years of experience and meditation. First, 
 don t try to live by literature, but have some other 
 means of support like your salary from Carington & 
 Company, for example. Second, don t neglect your 
 health ; that is to say, exercise regularly, and stead 
 fastly refuse to overwork. Third, do your best always, 
 and never be satisfied with your second best. Fourth, 
 try to please yourself, for then you are sure to please 
 somebody at least ; but don t be too easy to please. 
 Fifth, and perhaps this is the most important of all 
 certainly it is the most practical fifth, sell your wares 
 always in the best market and for the highest price 
 you can get. Don t think of the pay till the work is 
 done ; but when it is done, insist on its full value.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOBBOW 25 
 
 Follow those five rules, and if there is anything in you, 
 it will have a fair chance to come out and to reap its 
 full reward." 
 
 "I shall treasure them in my heart/ responded Sar- 
 taiu, smiling in his turn, and adjusting his rhetoric to 
 Vivian s. " They are written in my memory in letters 
 of gold." 
 
 And now I have given you my advice," said Vivi 
 an, rising and casting his cigar into the fireplace, 
 "let s go into the parlor and my daughter will give 
 you a cup of tea." 
 
 " I shall be delighted," Sartain declared, as he stood 
 up. He was seized with a sudden fit of shyness to 
 which he was determined not to yield. He wondered 
 what manner of woman this daughter of the novelist 
 might be, and he was conscious, also, of a hope that 
 the girl who had come up in the elevator with him, 
 Miss Dircks, might still be with Miss Vivian, and that 
 he might make her acquaintance also. 
 
 "You know, I have three children," the novelist 
 remarked; "half of them are girls." Then, hav 
 ing enjoyed the younger man s stare of surprise, he 
 added, "and so are the other half! I have three 
 daughters only." 
 
 Sartain recalled having read somewhere in a news 
 paper that Mr. Vivian was a widower, and that his 
 eldest daughter kept house for him. The swift change 
 of the subject of their conversation had taken him by 
 surprise, and he did not see now how he could lead the 
 talk again to his Dust and Ashes and ask Mr. Vivian 
 to read it. For the present he felt that the best he 
 could do was to give up the attempt. So he followed 
 his host in silence.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 As they passed along the dim corridor the novelist 
 continued talking. "Johnny keeps house for me/ 
 he said, " and she will give you a cup of tea. But I 
 want you to see my twins also." 
 
 Sartain felt that he was expected to say something, 
 and so he answered, "Your twins? Why, I didn t 
 know you had any young children." 
 
 The novelist laughed a little. "Well," he said, 
 " they are not so young as they look, and they are not 
 so old as they think they are. But you shall see for 
 yourself." 
 
 With that he parted the curtains that draped the 
 doorway of the drawing-room and held them back for 
 his guest to precede him. 
 
 The picture thus revealed to Sartain was unex 
 pected. The room before him was large and spacious, 
 having three broad windows, the curtains of which 
 were now drawn back so as to admit as much light as 
 possible. A long, low table had been rolled in front of 
 the central window, and a chair had been placed on 
 top of it. Seated on this chair was a slim girl whose 
 ashen gold hair fell free over her shoulders ; and 
 standing on the table behind her chair, and as though 
 walking away from her, were two plump girls, very 
 much alike, with rich auburn hair. Four or five yards
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 27 
 
 away sat a short young man, who held upright on his 
 knee a large sheet of drawing-paper pinned to a port 
 folio ; and on this he was rapidly sketching the group. 
 At his side stood a fourth girl, rather tall, and dressed 
 somewhat mannishly, having a tailor-made suit, with a 
 linen waistcoat and stiff white shirt. So intent were 
 the five persons in the parlor upon the business in 
 hand that they took no notice of Sartain and his 
 host. 
 
 Vivian broke the silence by saying : " Well, well, 
 Avell !" whereupon the girls all started. 
 
 " Oh, papa !" cried one of the plump pair on the 
 table ; " how you frightened me I" 
 
 " If I am to be taken by surprise like that," said 
 the other, " I can easily get thin !" 
 
 The erect young woman standing by the chair of 
 the artist laughed heartily. 
 
 " You scared me out of a week s growth," she de 
 clared, " and as for Theo and Dora, why, I never saw 
 them jump so !" 
 
 The girl with the fragile figure and the fine light 
 hair streaming down her back said nothing. Her chair 
 on the top of the table was so placed that she had 
 seen the new-comers before any of the others had 
 caught sight of them; and yet she had not given 
 the alarm or made any outcry. After a single glance 
 at Sartain she had lowered her eyes. Now as she sat 
 still he saw a blush crimson her cheeks and then 
 slowly fade away. 
 
 Then it suddenly struck the young man that he 
 was staring at her most rudely, and he turned away to 
 look at the others. To the best of his recollection he 
 had never seen this girl before, and yet there was
 
 28 A CONFIDENT TO-AIOKROW 
 
 something about her which seemed to him strangely 
 familiar. 
 
 "Well, young people/ said Vivian, "what s going 
 on here living pictures ?" 
 
 "That s about it," answered the tall girl, coming 
 forward with her hands in her manly pockets. " The 
 girls were just posing for Madams here." 
 
 " Oh, Adams put you up to it, did he ?" her father 
 answered, smiling. " Well, I might have guessed as 
 much. But as you are not in the group, Johnny, 
 perhaps you can give my friend here, Mr. Sartain, a 
 cup of tea ?" 
 
 "I m afraid the water has all boiled away," she said, 
 going over to a table in the corner ; "but I ll ring for 
 some," and she pushed a button in the wainscoting 
 behind the table. 
 
 "Don t trouble yourself on my account," Sartain 
 found voice to say. "I don t care for tea really, I 
 do not !" 
 
 "But you wouldn t deprive me of a cup, would 
 yon ?" interrupted Vivian. "As Johnny keeps house, 
 she refuses to make fresh tea for me if I am not here 
 on time. She is very strict with rne. But, of course, 
 she cannot treat a stranger like you with the discour 
 tesy she reserves for her father." 
 
 " What will be thought of me," the tall girl re 
 sponded, " if you misrepresent me like that ?" 
 
 " Mr. Sartain comes from a far country, John 
 ny," Mr. Vivian went on, "and I want you to make 
 him at home here. Sartain, this is my daughter, 
 Joan." 
 
 She held out her hand and grasped Sartain s firmly, 
 saying that they tried to be at home on Saturday af-
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 29 
 
 ternoon, and that they would be glad always to give 
 him a cnp of tea. 
 
 "And here are my twins," continued the novelist, 
 watching Sartain, as the young man glanced about the 
 room in search of the children thus introduced. 
 
 " Oh, papa !" cried one of the plump girls, jumping 
 from the table to the chair and again to the floor. 
 
 " I don t think that is funny any longer if it ever 
 was !" declared the other one, following her sister s 
 example. 
 
 " These are my twins," said Vivian, enjoying his 
 traditional jest. "Miss Theodora Vivian, Miss Doro 
 thea Vivian Mr. Sartain." 
 
 The young people bowed, Sartain a little stiffly, 
 and the girls shook hands with him heartily. 
 
 " That s papa s pet joke," said one of them. 
 
 " And it s our pet aversion," the other added. "We 
 have not brought him up properly." 
 
 The manner of the twins struck Sartain as some 
 what forward, not to say pert ; and he marvelled a 
 little at their free and easy attitude towards their 
 father. He feared that he should never like them 
 certainly not so well as he already liked the elder sis 
 ter, Johnny, whose greeting had been frankly cordial. 
 
 The girl with the hair down her back had been left 
 sitting in the chair, and the artist was still sketching 
 rapidly. Now she made a movement as though to 
 rise. 
 
 " Oh, don t move, please !" cried the young man, 
 with his pencil poised in the air. " Let me have 
 another minute of Cinderella, even if the Haughty 
 Sisters are wicked enough to quit." 
 
 " So my twins were posing as the Haughty Sisters ?"
 
 30 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 Vivian asked, laughing. " I think it was very imper 
 tinent of Adams to dare to ask you." 
 
 " But he didn t," one of them answered. 
 
 " We volunteered," the other followed. 
 
 " The fact is," broke in Johnny, " Madams begged 
 Esther to sit for Cinderella, and, just to persuade her, 
 Theo and Dora offered to do the Haughty Sisters." 
 
 "And I want to complain of them to you, Mr. 
 Vivian," said the young lady sitting on the chair on 
 the table ; " they have treated me shamefully. They 
 pulled my hair down and made me look like a 
 fright !" 
 
 Her voice was low and sweet and delicately modu 
 lated. It awakened a familiar echo in Sartain s ears, 
 and yet he could not remember when or where he had 
 heard it before. 
 
 " Don t be a humbug, Esther," said Dorothea ; " you 
 know your hair is just lovely that way !" 
 
 " You haven t lived to be nearly nineteen," Theo 
 declared, " without finding out that it is very becom 
 ing to you to have your hair down." 
 
 Sartain had his eyes fixed on the girl, and he saw 
 her cheeks flush again and then slowly pale. He was 
 afraid that it might be embarrassing for her to hear 
 herself discussed thus before him, as he had not been 
 presented to her, and he felt that it was uncomfortable 
 for him also. 
 
 " Certainly Cinderella herself never looked more 
 charming," Vivian declared, " and if I was not so 
 pleased with the picture, I should believe it to be my 
 duty to apologize for interrupting the pose. But 
 hasn t the model earned a rest yet ?" he asked, turn 
 ing to the artist.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 31 
 
 " In a minute," the sketcher answered. " Do wait 
 till I get those lovely folds of the dress." 
 
 " If it is only the drapery that insensate stone is 
 copying," Vivian went on, "why, let him go on, and 
 I will take this opportunity to present Sartain to Miss 
 Dircks." 
 
 " Don t move," cried the artist, "or you ll spoil the 
 folds." 
 
 Sartain had stepped forward, and the girl had raised 
 her liquid eyes when this outcry checked them both. 
 
 "Mr. Sartain and I have met before," said Miss 
 Dircks "at least, we came up on the elevator together." 
 
 Sartain bowed but said nothing. So this was the 
 girl who had entered the apartment when he did, and 
 that was how he came to be dimly familiar with her 
 voice and her figure. Her face he saw now for the 
 first time, and he could hardly take his eyes from it. 
 He did not understand why he should be so confused. 
 He wanted to say something brilliant, he did not care 
 what, something that would show him off to advan 
 tage ; but he had never found himself duller. He 
 was absolutely at a loss for words. He knew that he 
 must look like a fool. He wondered whether all the 
 others noticed it whether she had perceived it. To 
 him it seemed that the dreadful silence lasted several 
 minutes. 
 
 "There!" the artist declared, rising to his feet. 
 " Fve got it after a fashion," and he held his sketch 
 away from him and tried to look at it dispassionately. 
 "At any rate, it s the best I can do when you girls 
 persist in chattering." 
 
 " Then I may step down now ?" asked the girl in 
 the chair.
 
 32 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKROW 
 
 "Yes, that s all, thank you," answered the artist, 
 still intent on his sketch. 
 
 "No manners, has he ?" commented Theodora. 
 
 "Just like him, isn t it?" returned Dorothea, as 
 they went over to look at the drawing. 
 
 Miss Dircks had risen to her feet and was now 
 about to descend from her pedestal. 
 
 "Allow me to assist you," said Sartain, delighted 
 that he had found his tongue again. He stepped to 
 her side and proffered his hand. 
 
 " Thank you," she answered, laying only the tips of 
 her fingers on his wrist and jumping lightly to the 
 chair and thence to the floor. 
 
 " Oh, papa !" cried Dorothea, "just see what a hate 
 ful picture Madams has made of us ! I hope and trust 
 you will never ask him to lunch again !" 
 
 " There !" added Theodora, thrusting the huge 
 sheet of paper under her father s nose. "You didn t 
 suppose your red -headed twins ever looked as disa 
 greeable as that, did you ? I think you ought to order 
 Madams to leave the house at once !" 
 
 Vivian had felt in his pocket for his glasses. Hav 
 ing adjusted them on his nose, he examined the sketch. 
 
 "Well," he said, " you haven t flattered the Haugh 
 ty Sisters, have you ? but you caught the likeness 
 most absurdly. I shall never let you illustrate a story 
 of mine again !" 
 
 "Serves you right, Madams," Johnny declared. 
 
 " Oh, there are others," the artist blandly returned. 
 "And it is unfair for you to expect me to provide 
 both the art and the ability to appreciate it. That is 
 absolutely opposed to the principle of the division of 
 labor."
 
 A CO^FIDEXT TO-MORROW 33 
 
 " Sartain !" called Vivian to the young man, who 
 was still standing by the side of Miss Dircks and lis 
 tening to the easy flow of her talk, and wishing that 
 he could say a word now and then that did not sound 
 hopelessly flat the moment it left his mouth. "Sar 
 tain," Vivian began, " I want you to know Emerson 
 Adams here, and I want him to know you, too, for he 
 can find his way around this motley town of ours and 
 show you many a thing I don t know anything about." 
 
 The two young men bowed a little stiffly both of 
 them. Sartain thought that Adams had bad manners ; 
 and then it came to him in a flash that the artist 
 would be justified in thinking that his manners were 
 also inferior. 
 
 " Emerson," continued Vivian, "I hope you will be 
 kind to Sartain here and lend him the benefit of your 
 vast experience of life." 
 
 " If all he wants of me is a share of my experience, 
 I can afford to supply him," said the artist, running 
 one hand through his shock of curly hair, which was 
 very thick and very black. "I ve got experience to 
 burn." 
 
 "What is this I ve heard about you in Eome last 
 winter ?" the novelist continued. " Did you really re 
 fuse to go and see the Sistine Chapel on the ground 
 that Michaelangelo was a d d dago back-number T " 
 
 " That s just the way my innocent remarks are al 
 ways misrepresented," explained Adams. "I allowed 
 them to take me to the Sistine Chapel, and all I said 
 was that the decoration looked as if it had been done 
 before the war and that Michaelangelo ought to 
 study the Japanese if he wanted to be up to date." 
 
 "You know what I have already told you, Emer-
 
 34 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 son ?" Vivian returned, smiling. " I have always de 
 clared that your opinions are more interesting than 
 they are valuable." 
 
 Sartaiu listened in silence to this exchange, and he 
 did not know quite what to make of it. He felt him 
 self to be truly a stranger in a strange land, not wholly 
 understanding the dialect of its inhabitants. He saw 
 that Mr. Vivian seemed to enjoy the flavor of Adams s 
 talk. He saw also, or thought he did, that the artist 
 was fully aware of the effect produced by his unex 
 pected sayings. He found himself suspecting that 
 perhaps Adams had made use of some of them before, 
 or, at least, had thought them up in advance. None 
 the less did Sartain envy the ease of Adams s conver 
 sation, and of the artist s attitude towards the world 
 generally. He wished that he was as free from self- 
 consciousness as Adams was ; he wished that he could 
 talk as lightly and as flippantly ; he wished that he 
 was not intimidated by the presence of four agreeable 
 girls. 
 
 It was before Miss Dircks that he was most de 
 sirous of appearing to advantage ; and yet, when he 
 tried to chat with her, his tongue refused to do the 
 bidding of his will. Apparently the two lobes of his 
 brain gave contradictory orders, and he was able only 
 to stutter forth a few incoherent remarks. He was 
 at a loss also to answer the glancing chatter of the 
 twins, in which there was often an ironic flavor of per 
 sonality. For him, on that memorable afternoon, con 
 versation was easiest with Mr. Vivian s eldest daughter. 
 Johnny s frank directness was not embarrassing to him, 
 unaccustomed as he was to young women who had 
 adopted ways that seemed to him unduly masculine.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 35 
 
 Tt was a relief to him, therefore, when the white- 
 capped maid appeared with a steaming kettle. 
 
 " Can t I have another cup, too ?" asked Adams, who 
 had followed Sartain over to the tea-table. "But I 
 want lemon in mine. That was a real lemony lemon 
 you gave me in my first cup. Now don t insult my 
 tea by putting sugar in it !" 
 
 " This isn t yours," she returned. " This is papa s. 
 Won t you give it to him, please ?" And she handed 
 the cup to Sartain. 
 
 " Oh, certainly," said the young man. 
 
 He took the cup to Mr. Vivian, who was standing in 
 the centre window talking to Miss Dircks. 
 
 " Can t I get you a cup of tea also ?" he managed to 
 say to her. 
 
 "Thank you," she answered, with the smile, which 
 seemed to Sartain to be her chief charm, "but I have 
 had two already, and father doesn t approve of tea- 
 drinking, lie thinks tea is almost as bad for us as 
 rum." 
 
 Low as her voice was, it was singularly clear and 
 it carried far. This last remark of hers was heard 
 by Adams, still standing by the tea-table in the next 
 window. 
 
 "Tf tea is as bad for us as rum, Miss Johnny," he 
 said, "perhaps you may put a drop or two of your rum 
 in my tea, just to set one evil off against the other." 
 
 "I will give it to you if you must have it," the 
 girl said, " but some day we shall have to insist on your 
 swearing off." 
 
 " So far," Adams rejoined, "I have been able to re 
 sist all appeals to take the pledge. You see, I believe 
 that a man ought to set a good example to himself."
 
 36 -A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 "Don t be absurd/ she returned,, "but make your 
 self useful and pass the sandwiches to Mr. Sartain." 
 
 The artist took up the plate, on which there were a 
 dozen disks of bread with the pale-green of a lettuce 
 leaf showing at the edges. 
 
 He handed it to Sartain, saying, "He can eat grass 
 if he likes but my name is not Nebuchadnezzar." 
 
 "Nebuchadnezzar wasn t the only creature in the 
 Bible who went on all -fours," declared one of the 
 twins, who had now crossed the room to the tea-table 
 corner. 
 
 Sartain had stepped back and a little to one side. 
 He did not know quite what to make of these people. 
 He felt a little out of place among them. He had 
 never seen a young man drink rum in tea, and he had 
 never seen a young lady help him to it. He had never 
 eaten lettuce sandwiches before, and he wondered how 
 they were cut out, and how it was that a vague taste 
 of delicate cheese lingered in his mouth. He liked 
 the flavor, and he liked also the tea itself. He liked 
 to listen to the merry chaffing of the others, even 
 though he could not take part in it. He liked espe 
 cially to look at Miss Dircks, who was still talking with 
 Mr. Vivian. 
 
 Sartain watched them ; and he saw for the first 
 time, as she stood in the cold north light of the cen 
 tre window, how ethereal the girl seemed to be. He 
 felt sure that she could not weigh a hundred pounds. 
 Her soft gray dress seemed to emphasize the radiance 
 of her flower - like face, with its broad, low forehead, 
 its deep gray eyes, and with its ashen-gold hair float 
 ing about it like a halo. It was not that she was sur 
 passingly beautiful, so Sartain said to himself, for he
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-5IORROAV 37 
 
 could not honestly say that she was; it was rather 
 that she was infinitely charming. As she chatted 
 vivaciously with Mr. Vivian, Sartain was able to cata 
 logue her good points the Cupid s bow of her mouth, 
 the graceful curves of her shell-like ear, the trans 
 parency of her complexion. He watched the color 
 come and go in her cheek, until at last it deepened 
 and she raised her eyes to his, whereupon he discov 
 ered once more that he had been staring at her rudely. 
 
 Mr. Vivian had followed her glance, and his gaze 
 now fell upon the young man standing alone. 
 
 "Sartain," he cried, "set that cup down anywhere 
 and come here and see how beautiful Central Park is 
 in the glory of an October afternoon. It is brown 
 now, and a little bare but beautiful always," said 
 Vivian. " To me this view is an unfailing delight. 
 It is better than any picture painted by the hand of 
 man, for it is never twice the same, and yet it is al 
 ways what it was designed to be. I don t know what 
 season of the year I like it best at. The greenery of 
 the spring isn t fairer than the splendid color of the 
 fall. And that little lake down there, far below the 
 street level, is more effective in the picture when it is 
 frozen and covered with darting midgets than it is to 
 day with its swan-boats all in use as they usually are 
 on a Saturday afternoon when it doesn t rain." 
 
 " So these are the swan-boats I have read about !" 
 Sartain commented. " And I suppose those are Lo- 
 hengrins of Lexington Avenue taking out their Elsas 
 of the East Side." 
 
 ^ 
 
 As he said this he was pleased that he had at last 
 been able to put together a sentence with a literary 
 flavor ; yet no sooner was it said than its utter vapid-
 
 38 A CONFIDENT TO-MOEROW 
 
 ity was revealed to him, and again he writhed inward 
 ly that he could not help talking nonsense before her. 
 
 "Adams says that the East Side Elsas, as you call 
 them, are likely sooner or later to find out that all 
 their swans are geese," the novelist returned. 
 
 The girl with the halo of fine-spun hair was stand 
 ing between them in the window, listening to one and 
 the other with obvious interest and yet taking no part 
 in their conversation. 
 
 At last she said, "When we first came to New 
 York, my father took me out in one of those boats 
 and I thought I was in heaven !" 
 
 Mr. Vivian looked at her and his kindly eye filled 
 with admiration. "I should like to have been the 
 knight you were awaiting, my dear if you looked as 
 much like Elsa then as you do now." 
 
 The girl blushed again. 
 
 " I must look like a fright," she said, raising her 
 hands to her head, "with my hair down like this. 
 But it isn t my fault, really it was Dora and Theo 
 who insisted on it. I hope you will scold them for it." 
 
 Mr. Vivian smiled, still looking at her with appre 
 ciation. 
 
 " I will forgive them this time," he declared ; " but 
 only on condition that they do it again." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Vivian," she said, "now you are laugh 
 ing at me !" 
 
 Sartain wanted to frame a hope that if she were 
 ever accused as Elsa was, he might be within sound of 
 the trumpets, to be called as her champion. But he 
 could not find fit words for the wish ; and then the 
 fear came upon him that this would be quite as absurd 
 as his last speech.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 39 
 
 He admired the novelist, but he was ready just then 
 almost to resent the possession by another man of the 
 tact he was devoid of himself. He took note of the 
 studied simplicity of Vivian s attire, the unobtrusive 
 Greek coin in the scarf, the neatness with which the 
 grayish beard and whiskers had been combed, the 
 general air of satisfied success that surrounded the 
 elder man. He was sufficiently acquainted with the 
 novelist s biography to know that Vivian had started 
 with advantages no greater than his own ; and he 
 asked himself why he should not in time climb to the 
 heights the elder man had attained. 
 
 The westering sun liquified the golden ribs and 
 reticulations of a dome far in the distance, on the 
 eastern edge of the Park, and Sartain stared at this 
 fixedly, while his hopes sprang forward into the future, 
 and he saw himself at the age of the man beside him, 
 in a room as luxuriously appointed as this he, too, 
 surrounded by admiration, and able, in his turn, to 
 hold out a helping hand to promising novices, and 
 ready to smooth the way for them to follow in his 
 footsteps. 
 
 He was roused from his revery by Miss Dircks. 
 
 " How short the days are now, aren t they ?" she 
 asked. "It is dark long before dinner and I think 
 that is horrid, don t you ? I like to be out in the after 
 noon and have it light till six o clock." 
 
 This gave Sartain a chance at last. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "I like to have daylight in the 
 daytime ; but I confess that I am fond of the hour 
 when Twilight lets her curtain down and pins it with 
 a star, as the mad poet said." 
 
 " That s where those rhymesters have the advantage
 
 40 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKROW 
 
 of us prose men, isn t it ?" Vivian broke in. "They 
 can descend to posterity by a single line." 
 
 " They have had that advantage in the past, per 
 haps/ Sartain admitted ; "but are they going to keep 
 it in the future ? Don t you believe the coming man 
 will prefer prose ? I think rhyme is likely to be given 
 up, and perhaps rhythm too." 
 
 " I should be very sorry to think that there wasn t 
 going to be any more poetry," the girl responded. 
 
 " You needn t be alarmed about that," the elder 
 novelist declared, with his light laugh. " The coming 
 man won t go without his song any more willingly than 
 he will go without his supper." 
 
 Miss Dircks looked away from the window into the 
 room, in which the early gloom of a winter afternoon 
 was already beginning to gather. 
 
 " It is nearly supper-time now, isn t it ?" she asked. 
 
 The novelist looked at his watch. "It is only a 
 little after five," he answered. "But why should you 
 be in a hurry to go home ? and why go at all ? Why 
 not stay and dine with us ?" 
 
 " Oh, I can t," she responded. " Father is coming 
 for me, and he likes me to read his paper to him in the 
 evening, especially on Saturdays then there is always 
 more news from Europe. He is still longing for a 
 great battle in Europe that will hurl all the wicked 
 kings from their thrones." 
 
 He can wait for that till after you have had your 
 dinner with us to-night, can t he ?" the novelist urged. 
 
 " I d dearly love to stay with Theo and Dora, of 
 
 course," she answered; "and father always wants me 
 
 to have a good time. But he d really miss my reading 
 
 the paper to him and so I think I d better not stay." 
 
 I
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOHROW 41 
 
 " After that I have no right to insist," Mr. Vivian 
 responded. Then he turned to Sartain. 
 
 " Why can t you stay and have dinner with us, 
 then ?" he asked. 
 
 The tone was warm, and yet the young man felt in 
 stantly moved to decline the invitation. He would 
 have liked to dine with the Vivians, although he pre 
 ferred that Miss Dircks should be also of the company. 
 But she was going now, and it seemed to Sartain that 
 perhaps the invitation had been extended to him only 
 because he had been present when she was asked. So 
 he began to make excuses at once. 
 
 " It s very kind of you to ask me, of course," he said, 
 with a return of his stammering shyness. " But it is 
 impossible quite impossible that is, to-night. You 
 see, I have only just arrived to-day and there are any 
 number of things I ought to do this evening." 
 
 " Perhaps some other night, then," Vivian rejoined ; 
 " later in the winter when you are settled." 
 
 "I shall be delighted," Sartain answered. 
 
 While they had been standing in the window he had 
 heard frequent laughter from the corner on his left. 
 Now, as they both turned their backs on the view out- 
 of - doors, they saw the four girls listening to the 
 artist, who was describing the difficulty he had had 
 in getting the material he needed to make the illus 
 trations for a story, the scene of which was laid in 
 Kome. 
 
 " What did I know about those cardinals ?" he was 
 saying ; " and I couldn t get anybody to tell me 
 whether they lived in the Vatican or boarded out. So 
 I dodged the difficulty and made them standing out 
 on the stoop of St. Peter s."
 
 42 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 " Was the author satisfied with that ?" asked the 
 novelist. 
 
 " Oh, I don t know," the artist responded. " Prob 
 ably not. Authors are generally so unreasonable 
 sometimes they really want an illustrator to read their 
 manuscripts ! Now what can be more cramping to the 
 genius of an artist than to be tied down to the prosaic 
 facts in a manuscript ?" 
 
 " Yes," said one of the twins, it is always hard for 
 Madams to be tied down to the facts I" 
 
 " In conversation, at any rate," added the other, 
 "Madams just invents all the facts he needs." 
 
 The artist paid no attention to this interruption. 
 
 "I don t know how much the author liked my draw 
 ing," he went on, "but the art-editor of the Arctic 
 Monthly liked it, and so I raised my price on him. 
 Did I ever tell you," he asked, addressing himself to 
 Vivian, but after a glance that swept Sartain also into 
 the conversation, " my new trick for getting ahead of 
 art-editors ? It is a beauty, and I ve worked it on two 
 or three of them already." 
 
 " Set forth your scheme," said Vivian, who seemed 
 to enjoy inciting him to further self-revelation. 
 
 "Like all really great inventions, it s very simple," 
 Adams replied. " Whenever I take in a drawing which 
 I think pretty good, I make out two bills for it, one 
 for my regular price for such work, and one for about 
 a third more than my regular price. The ordinary bill 
 I put in my right pocket, and the extra-ordinary bill I 
 put in my left pocket. Then, if the art-editor doesn t 
 grumble more than his custom, I take the regular bill 
 out of my right pocket. But if I can see he thinks 
 my work is better than usual, and just what he wants
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 43 
 
 and especially if he calls in somebody elso to admire 
 it why, then I go down into rny left pocket and pull 
 out the bigger bill, and I tell him I was sure he would 
 see what a very swell thing I d done this time and 
 before he knows where he is, I ve got him to pass the 
 extra price. Oh, I tell you, a man who is selling his 
 goods to art-editors, he has just got to have the wis 
 dom of the serpent !" 
 
 " Well, I think that is rather a snaky trick to play 
 on the poor man," commented Johnny, with her hands 
 in her masculine pockets. 
 
 " He isn t a poor man," retorted Adams. "At least, 
 it was the publisher s money I got out of him and 
 whoever heard of a poor publisher ?" 
 
 " Do you maintain that all publishers are wealthy ?" 
 asked Vivian. 
 
 "All of them !" Adams returned. "They are all 
 rolling in ill-gotten gains, made out of the sweat of 
 our brows, and I ll prove it to you. Isn t it a publish 
 er who gives the best dinners in New York ? And I 
 don t give dinners, do I?" 
 
 " I don t believe you even dine out with anybody 
 else," said Vivian with his light laugh. " At least, you 
 refuse to dine with us to-night. And neither Avill Sar- 
 tain, here." 
 
 " It is very kind of you to ask me," declared Sartain, 
 a little awkwardly, twisting the end of his thin, brown 
 beard. " I m afraid I have stayed too long already." 
 
 " You must come again when you can stay longer," 
 said Johnny, shaking hands with him heartily. 
 
 The other three girls had drawn back into the cor 
 ner, and the twins were aiding Miss Dircks to ar 
 range her fair tresses. Sartain did not know whether
 
 44 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 to go over to them to bid them good-bye or merely 
 to bow. He hesitated, and took a step towards the 
 corner, and then took two steps towards the door. 
 Then he looked back again and chanced to catch the 
 eye of the slim girl, who had her hands above her head 
 and her mouth full of hair-pins. This time she bowed 
 in almost as much confusion as he.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 WHEN Sartain stepped out of the elevator on the 
 ground-floor of the house in which Mr. Vivian had his 
 apartment, he found himself face to face with a large, 
 heavy man, perhaps sixty years of age, who was wait 
 ing to be taken up. 
 
 Adams had forgotten his portfolio on the seat of the 
 elevator, and while he was getting this Sartain had a 
 chance to observe that the elderly man with the robust 
 frame had a full white beard and long white hair fall 
 ing low on the worn collar of his shabby overcoat. But 
 the most striking features of the face were his bushy 
 eyebrows, bristling above a pair of fiery black eyes, and 
 to some extent contradicting the old man s general 
 aspect of benevolence. Perhaps it was this contra 
 diction that interested Sartain ; and he found himself 
 wishing that he knew who this old man was, who 
 seemed to him like a character right out of a book or 
 all ready to go into a book. 
 
 When Adams caught sight of the man with the 
 huge eyebrows he held out his hand cordially. 
 
 " Good - afternoon, Mr. Dircks !" he said, and it 
 struck Sartain that there was a hint of deference in 
 the pointer s manner not to be detected when he was 
 talking to Mr. Vivian. "Have you come for Miss 
 Esther ?"
 
 46 A CONFIDENT TO-MOBROW 
 
 " She s ready by now, ain t she ?" Dircks answered, 
 slowly, after shaking hands with Adams, and then get 
 ting into the elevator. "I don t want she should 
 come home before she is ready." 
 
 " Oh yes, she s waiting for you, I think," Adams re 
 sponded. Then the elevator started upward. 
 
 " Is that the father of Miss Esther Dircks ?" Sartain 
 asked, as he and the artist passed into the street and 
 turned towards Fifth Avenue. 
 
 "Yes, "Adams replied. "Queer -looking old boy, 
 isn t he ? Looks like a cross between a crank and a 
 freak just the sort of man who would believe in 
 health -food and sanitary underclothes, doesn t he? 
 He might be the proprietor of Perkin s Patent Hygienic 
 Mince-pies, or something of that sort. But any man 
 who picks Kaphael Dircks up for a fool can lay him 
 self down for a flat. I believe the old man thinks that 
 he s a socialist or an anarchist, but I guess he isn t 
 enough of one to hurt." 
 
 "Now you suggest it," Sartain declared, "perhaps 
 he does look a little like some of Turgenieff s charac 
 ters. Didn t his daughter say something about his 
 wanting a general war ?" 
 
 "I guess that s what she has heard him say," the 
 artist returned. "But I don t believe he d set the 
 North River on fire, even if he could. If he did, he d 
 find it harder than ever to make a living." 
 
 " What is he ?" asked Sartain, wondering how it 
 was that the delicate-looking girl he had just left could 
 have a father of an appearance so formidable and of 
 opinions so incendiary. 
 
 " He s an engraver on wood," Adams explained, 
 "and one of the best in the business, too. lie can
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 47 
 
 cnt a block so as to bring out the dreamy poetic ef 
 fects in a landscape better than any man in America. 
 He s got a Dutch thoroughness and a Yankee delicacy 
 of touch. But there isn t much in it now. Process 
 is crowding out wood - engraving, and the engravers 
 will have to learn another trade. Of course, the best 
 of them don t feel it so much, but they are all hurt. 
 The old man looked shabby, didn t he ? I guess that 
 won t make him any better satisfied with the structure 
 of society. If he can t get work, he ll think he wants 
 to blow us all to blazes with dynamite every day before 
 dinner. " 
 
 " Is he is he very intimate with Mr. Vivian ?" 
 Sartain emboldened himself to inquire. 
 
 " It s his daughter who knows the twins," explained 
 the artist. " They all went to school together. Now 
 the girls are as friendly as ever, although the old man 
 can t find it very easy to keep up with the procession, 
 Avhile the Vivians are just rolling in money." 
 
 Sartain s hope leaped forward, and he saw the day 
 when his own books should be as popular as Vivian s, 
 and when he could surround the woman he might love 
 with a like luxury. 
 
 He expressed to Adams his satisfaction in discover 
 ing that literature had this ample reward. 
 
 " Oh," cried the artist, " don t you make any mis 
 take ! It isn t Vivian s money that runs that show of 
 theirs !" 
 
 "Don t his stories sell ?" asked Sartain, in surprise. 
 
 " I don t know whether they do or they don t," 
 Adams returned. " But the best love-story he ever 
 told was when he got his wife to marry him! She was 
 the only child of a very wealthy man. Now she s
 
 48 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 dead, and Vivian is a cheerful widower, and Johnny 
 and the twins have about ten thousand a year apiece. 
 I ve an idea that the girls are very good to their father ; 
 they put up for the apartment and everything ; and 
 all he has to do with the money he makes himself is 
 to buy his own clothes, and his cigars, and a picture 
 now and then. He bought a little thing of mine at 
 the Artists last spring. They ve got it at their coun 
 try-place in the Berkshires. I went down for a week 
 to see that it was hung in the right light. They do 
 know how to make a man feel at home there, I tell 
 you hot and cold whiskey in every room in the 
 house !" 
 
 Sartain was at one with him in thinking that the 
 novelist s daughters were very agreeable young ladies. 
 
 " Johnny is the salt of the earth/ Adams returned ; 
 " she s a perfect gentleman ! And the bronze-plated 
 twins are good little girls too. I m in love with both 
 of them ; and if bigamy wasn t against the law I d pro 
 pose to the pair of them. I don t believe I d have any 
 difficulty in living up to twenty thousand a year." 
 
 " I noticed that they were very friendly with you," 
 commented the other. " But why do they call you 
 Madams ?" 
 
 " It sounds as if I were two French women, doesn t 
 it ?" the artist responded. "Well, you see they knew 
 me too well to be formal and address me as Mr. Ad 
 ams, and Johnny thought I wasn t serious enough to 
 be called Emerson ; you see, Theo and Dora are only 
 eighteen, and Johnny is twenty -two! So they con 
 tracted Emerson Adams into - Madams. " : 
 
 They were walking along Fifty-ninth Street by the 
 edge of Central Park, and the end of the day was near.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 49 
 
 The leaves had fallen from the most of the reddened 
 maples. The air was warmer than it had been in the 
 morning, but a chill breeze now blew spasmodically. 
 To the north, over the Park, the sky was cold and gray. 
 The lowering clouds threatened a storm. 
 
 They skirted the Plaza and then turned southward 
 into Fifth Avenue. As Sartain looked down that fa 
 mous vista, the struggling sun on the horizon broke 
 through and flooded the tops of the tall buildings with 
 glory. The spires of the Cathedral rose white and 
 glistening in the distance against a dark bank of slate- 
 colored cloud. 
 
 "There," cried the artist in delight, "isn t that 
 beautiful ?" 
 
 " What ?" asked Sartain looking about him in sur 
 prise. 
 
 " This !" answered Adams, making a broad gesture. 
 " The whole thing ! This is what makes life worth 
 living here in New York this mellow atmosphere 
 and this splendid sunlight." 
 
 " I can see what you mean, I think," the new-comer 
 admitted; "there is a certain picturesqueness, and " 
 
 "Picturesqueness !" interrupted the artist vehement 
 ly, "of course there s picturesqueness but there s 
 beauty, too, if you have only eyes to see it. I hope 
 yon don t take any stock in that rant of Buskin s 
 about the country being better than the city ? That s 
 all rubbish and tommyrot ! A great city is the final 
 achievement of this so-called nineteenth century of 
 ours and it s the perfect flower of the century too ! 
 If the Greeks didn t have anything like New York, 
 now so much the worse for the Greeks, that s all !" 
 
 " New York is certainly very impressive," Sartain
 
 50 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 returned. "I begin to feel as though I were nearer 
 to the centre of things." 
 
 " Look at that !" cried the artist, paying no atten 
 tion to this remark and waving his hand at the steam 
 which billowed down over the roof of a tall building. 
 "There s another thing the Greeks didn t have 
 steam ! And it is absolutely the most graceful, poetic, 
 fantastic, various, and beautiful thing in the world to 
 day. Look at that wreath of white cloud as it curls 
 along ! that s worth while, isn t it ?" 
 
 Sartain thought that this was said for effect ; but 
 when he watched the rolling vapor to which the artist 
 drew his attention and saw it shot through with the 
 rays of the setting sun, he could not deny that it was 
 glorious ; and for the first time he was seized by a 
 sense of the beauty inherent in modern life. 
 
 "Look down there too!" called Adams as they 
 crossed a side street, at the end of which the sun 
 shone through bars of orange and tawny brown and 
 dark red. "We can do very pretty things down at 
 the ends of the streets when we try. But that s mere 
 Nature and Nature is never as fine as Art. It needs 
 the suggestion of man s presence to make the land 
 scape really sympathetic. That s why the puff of 
 steam from the hidden locomotive seen from afar in 
 the mountains is so effective ; it gives the friendly 
 touch ; it strikes the human note. That s the sort of 
 thing I try to put in my pictures just to make them 
 sing !" 
 
 Sartain listened in surprise. He had no longer any 
 doubt as to the artist s sincerity, even if he thought 
 he detected a certain exaggeration of manner. 
 
 "Yes," he said, slowly, "now you show me, I can
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 51 
 
 sec that these white plumes waving over the heads of 
 the tall buildings are brave and beautiful. But don t 
 you think the Greeks would have been the first to ad 
 mit that if they could have seen it ?" 
 
 " It s very hard to be fair to the Greeks," the artist 
 returned ; " they painted their statues, you know ; 
 and they wore straw bonnets tied under their chins, 
 like hired men on a farm. But I suppose they were 
 keen enough to know a good thing when they saw it ; 
 and maybe they would have had the taste to appre 
 ciate steam if they had had the good-luck to have it. 
 But then they didn t have it, did they ? And we do; 
 that s where we are so much better off than they were 
 to say nothing of the fact we are alive now, and 
 they are quite dead, all of them." 
 
 As they walked briskly down the avenue in the set 
 tling twilight the electric lights suddenly blazed up, 
 and their path, as it stretched away before them, was 
 picked out in dots of diamond. 
 
 "There s another thing the Greeks hadn t the 
 electric light," Adams broke out again. "Indeed, 
 their greatest deficiency was in artificial illumination. 
 You know the wretched little lamps they had in Pom 
 peii ? feeble things a man couldn t see a joke by. The 
 fact is, the Greeks just had to be good boys and go to 
 bed with the little birdies and get up with the early 
 worms ; there wasn t anything else for them to do." 
 
 Sartain admitted that in many ways life was more 
 agreeably organized now than it could have been in 
 the days of Demosthenes. But still, had not the 
 Greeks a perfect sense of form, and is not form the 
 very core of art ? He thought Goethe had said some 
 thing: of the sort.
 
 52 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 " Goethe was a Dutchman, wasn t he ?" asked 
 Adams, impatiently, "and what does an} 7 Dutchman 
 know about art anyway ? But I don t want you to 
 think I m going back on the Greeks, for I wouldn t 
 do it. Praxiteles was no slouch ; I know that well 
 enough. Still, I m tired of hearing them cracked up by 
 people who would be the very first to jump on them 
 if they were alive to-day ! And we are not fair to 
 ourselves either, for we judge the Greeks by their 
 best and we judge the men of our own time by their 
 worst or at least by their average. Now I think 
 there is more good work being done to-day than there 
 ever was at any one time in the past." 
 
 "In Europe, perhaps," Sartain allowed; "but not 
 here in America, where life is grimy and sordid and 
 material." 
 
 " Life is always grimy and sordid and material, if 
 yon stick your nose into the dirt," Adams retorted. 
 "When the Greeks had a symposium, somebody had 
 to wash up the dishes and throw out the slops. I m 
 sick of having people talk as if the Greeks lived on 
 nectar and ambrosia. That was food for the gods 
 and the Greeks themselves were very human." 
 
 "Yes," Sartain confessed, "I suppose we are always 
 prone to idealize the past." 
 
 "And that s a pity, isn t it, since we ve got to live in 
 the present ?" Adams asked. " To a live man, it s his 
 own times that are most interesting. If a man has 
 eyes to see, he can find lots of things going on to-day 
 right in New York." 
 
 " Artistic things ?" Sartain queried, a little doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 " That s what I mean," Adams returned. " There s
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 53 
 
 a big boom coming in art here in America very soon. 
 We are really a most artistic people ; we don t know 
 much about it yet, but we ve got the tempera 
 ment." 
 
 " Do yon really think so ?" Sartain asked, overpow 
 ered by the artist s vehemence and yet vibrating to his 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 " I m sure of it," answered Adams. " Why, so long 
 as I couldn t live in Athens under Pericles, or in Flor 
 ence under the Medici, I d rather live here in New 
 York now ! The pot is a-boiling to-day, and I only 
 hope I ll live long enough to see what kind of a dish 
 it s going to be." 
 
 Sartain was not accustomed to listen to conversation 
 as pyrotechnic as this. He wanted time to turn these 
 startling suggestions over in his mind. 
 
 " Speaking of pots and pans," Adams continued, 
 "here in New York you can get a civilized dinner. 
 I ve got an engagement to-night, or I d blow you off to 
 one. Tell me where you put up, and I ll come around 
 for you some evening." 
 
 Sartain gave him his address in Irving Place, and 
 asked the artist if he would drop in some night at six, 
 and share his boarding-house fare. 
 
 "First time I m over the limit at the club I ll de 
 scend on you," Adams declared ; "and you ll be sorry 
 you asked me. Hello ! here s Thirty-fourth Street, and 
 I must tear myself away from you. Your conversation 
 is so fascinating I hate to do it ; but I have to, if I m 
 going to be dressed for dinner. Good-bye !" 
 
 And without shaking hands, or any more formal 
 leave-taking, Adams turned into the side-street, leav 
 ing Sartain to continue his walk down the avenue
 
 54 A CONFIDENT TO-MOIUtOW 
 
 alone. He lingered and loitered on the way, and, as a 
 result, he was a few minutes late for his dinner. 
 
 When he went down to the basement he heard a con 
 fused babble of voices welling forth from the dining- 
 room ; but this chatter sank as he appeared in the door 
 way. Every seat was occupied save one between the 
 bicycle young man and the yellow-haired elocutionist ; 
 and everybody promptly stared at the new-comer, to 
 Sartain s intense discomfort. His shyness was inter 
 mittent, and sometimes he could resist the attack by a 
 resolute effort ; but in the presence of all these men 
 and women, well acquainted with one another,, he felt 
 himself a stranger ; and his diffidence was now intensi 
 fied by the sense of loneliness. He slipped into his 
 chair as swiftly as he could. He was glad when Ket- 
 tleton greeted him cordially, and Avhen Mr. Wornum 
 and Miss De Lancey bowed to him elaborately. 
 
 In the course of the dinner Kettleton took occasion 
 to introduce the new - comer formally to the various 
 ladies and gentlemen who were within reach. The gen 
 tlemen asserted that they were glad to make Mr. Sar 
 tain s acquaintance, and the ladies declared that they 
 were pleased to meet him. 
 
 The young man who had been brought up in Khode 
 Island and who had been living in Kansas had thought 
 himself to be wholly free from snobbishness, and quite 
 incapable of holding one person better than another 
 because of riches or education or social advantages of 
 any sort. Yet now he caught himself contrasting the 
 men and women around him, as they ate their hasty 
 dinner in the crowded and semi -subterranean base 
 ment, with the group who had gathered only an hour 
 or two earlier about the tea-table in Mr. Vivian s spa-
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 55 
 
 cious drawing-room with its broad outlook over Central 
 Park, lie had come East ready to resent wealth and 
 prompt to protest against all social inequalities. He 
 had the spirit of the reformer burning ardently with 
 in him and was this flame to be blown out by the 
 opening of a door into a single household of wealth ? 
 
 "With thoughts like these to fill his mind, he had 
 even less desire than usual to take part in the conver 
 sation. He answered when one or another spoke to 
 him ; but otherwise he said little, and he hardly even 
 listened to the talk that went on all around him. Not 
 loquacious often, he was now even more taciturn than 
 usual. When dinner was at an end he rose among 
 the first, anxious to be alone in his own room. 
 
 As he went out of the door the pocket of his coat 
 chanced to catch on the knob. Thus it was that, al 
 though out of sight of those still in the dining-room, 
 he was not out of hearing. 
 
 " 1 say, Kettleton," he heard a voice declare, "that 
 new friend of yours is a regular clam." 
 
 " He don t need to hire a hall, he don t," said an 
 other voice. 
 
 "Ah, go easy!" the bicycle young man retorted. 
 "He s all right! Just wait till he gets his wind. 
 He s just come in from the "West, and he ain t used to 
 Society yet see ?" 
 
 Once in his little hall bedroom, Sartain felt as 
 though he were once more his own master. He locked 
 the door and lighted the gas. Then he went to his 
 trunk and again took out the manuscript of his novel. 
 
 He was at the end only of his first day in the me 
 tropolis, and already his ideas about the city had been 
 modified in more ways than one. He foresaw that he
 
 56 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 would have to rewrite several passages of Dust and 
 Ashes ; and there was no page in it which had not 
 been written two or three times already. 
 
 Having the interlineated leaves in his hand, he read 
 again one of his favorite chapters, lingering over it 
 lovingly. It was the scene in which the hero,, a tele 
 graph - operator, who was also an advanced thinker, 
 threw up his situation in the headquarters of the polit 
 ical party with which he had hitherto been in sym 
 pathy, because he was sick of the corruption, the in 
 timidation, and the fraud he was called upon to take 
 part in as the transmitter of confidential orders. Al 
 though the hero was heavily in debt, for money lent 
 secretly, to the worthless father of the woman he loved, 
 he did not shrink when put to the test ; he resigned 
 his salary unhesitatingly ; and he took occasion to tell 
 the veteran politician who had employed him what 
 was an honest man s opinion of the dastardly prac 
 tices he had witnessed. The interview between the old 
 party - leader and the young telegraph - operator took 
 place at midnight, while the echoes of a most spec 
 tacular torch-light procession still rang in the air. As 
 Sartaiu silently repeated the scorching words of his 
 hero, he could not withhold his own approval, and he 
 even wished that he could have* been present actually 
 to see the old villain cower before the scorn of the 
 honest young fellow. 
 
 When he had read the chapter to the end he laid 
 down the manuscript to light a cigar. Then he vis 
 ualized the picture presented when he followed Mr. 
 Vivian into the parlor. He recalled Cinderella and 
 the Haughty Sisters as they posed on the long, low 
 table. He felt greatly disgusted that he had not been
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-M011KOW 57 
 
 able to converse with the girls as easily as with their 
 father. His cheek burned when he thought how he 
 had neglected every opportunity to compliment Cin 
 derella. How dull she must have deemed him ! That 
 he should have seemed stupid to Johnny and the twins 
 was humiliating enough ; but that he should have 
 been a boor before Miss Dircks was unpardonable. 
 He evoked her image, her slim figure, her grace of 
 attitude, her thoughtful expression, her broad brow, 
 her deep eyes, and her sensitive mouth. She floated 
 before him in a vision scarcely human almost angelic. 
 Then he went back to the few words they had inter 
 changed ; he made up the pretty speeches he ought to 
 have said to her that afternoon ; he speculated as to 
 the way she would have received them, and as to the 
 responses she might have made. 
 
 When he had smoked his cigar he returned to his 
 manuscript. As he read he began to fear that his her 
 oine was altogether too shadowy and almost unreal. 
 The woman of flesh and blood was far more fascinat 
 ing than the woman of his own inventing. As soon 
 as he perceived this, he asked himself why it should 
 be so. He catalogued the charms he had bestowed 
 upon his heroine, and he tried to tabulate the reasons 
 why he was so much attracted by Miss Dircks. 
 
 It pleased him to let his thoughts play about the 
 fragile-looking girl he had met that afternoon for the 
 first time. Though he strove to fix his mind upon his 
 manuscript, it was rebellious and refused to attach it 
 self, insisting on its right to roam off in pursuit of her. 
 He wondered what she was doing at that hour of the 
 night, and where she was, and what she was thinking 
 about. He wished that he knew her father, and could
 
 58 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 thus guess at her home-life. He wanted to know all 
 about her not only about her father and her friends, 
 but about herself. He wanted to be with her. In a 
 word, he wanted her. 
 
 Then, in an illuminating flash of passionate desire, 
 it broke upon him he was in love ! He did not think 
 of denying it, for he saw at once that it was indispu 
 table ; and he was glad. He rejoiced at it even. It 
 pleased him that he should have fallen in love at first 
 sight, even as Eomeo did.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 IN" the next few days Sartain began to feel his foot 
 ing in Xew York firm beneath him. On Sunday after 
 noon lie took a long walk in Central Park. From one 
 of the knolls at the southern end he peered up at the 
 windows of the apartment - house where the Vivians 
 lived. He wished that Esther Dircks might be calling 
 again on the twins, and that she would look out of the 
 window and recognize him and smile down graciously. 
 The distance was too far for him to make sure of her 
 smile, so he substituted for this an encouraging wave 
 of her hands. Then he thought how fortunate it 
 would be for him, if, while she was gazing down at him 
 there, a little child should fall overboard from one of 
 the boats on the lake below, so that he could plunge in 
 and rescue it and restore it to its mother, looking up 
 at the girl in the window so that she might know that 
 he had performed this deed in her honor. Perhaps it 
 would be better if Esther herself were out driving with 
 Johnny, and if the horses should take fright, and rear 
 and plunge, and finally bolt past the bench whereon 
 he was sitting with a book, which he would cast aside 
 just in time to clutch the frantic steeds by the bridle, 
 saving the lives of the two girls at the risk of his own. 
 After these flattering visions had dramatized them 
 selves, Sartain almost laughed to think that he had
 
 60 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 fancied for his own use devices so stale and so hope 
 lessly outworn as these devices he would never have 
 dared to put into a novel. 
 
 Then as he turned away from Fifty-ninth Street 
 and resumed his walk, it occurred to him all at once 
 that perhaps he was too late, for Esther Dircks might 
 be in love with somebody else. He had no right really 
 to assume that he was the first man to be struck by 
 her exceeding charm. Perhaps she might be engaged 
 already ; and as this dread doubt came into his mind 
 Sartain stopped short and stared ahead stupidly. 
 
 Three giggling girls passed him, and one of them 
 said, " Maybe he s in love !" and one of the others re 
 turned, " Maybe he s eaten something !" He heard 
 this without taking in the meaning ; and then all 
 three girls laughed again ; and it was only a minute 
 later he perceived that it was at him they were laugh 
 ing. 
 
 He started to walk back to Irving Place. When he 
 turned into Fifth Avenue he found himself greatly in 
 terested in the difference presented between the ap 
 pearance by that distinguished thoroughfare on Sun 
 day and on Saturday afternoon. He thought it was 
 gayer ; there were more people. The men and wom 
 en were walking leisurely ; for the first time since 
 his arrival Sartain saw New Yorkers who Avere not in 
 a hurry. They seemed to him also to be very well 
 dressed the men as well as the women. 
 
 Perhaps it was his discovery of the fact that he 
 was in love, and perhaps it was the stylishness of the 
 men he met that afternoon on the avenue, that opened 
 his eyes to the slovenliness of his own clothes. He 
 compared himself with the other young fellows that
 
 A CONFIDENT TOMORROW 61 
 
 afternoon, much to his own disadvantage. His trou 
 sers, he discovered, were not only without the care 
 fully preserved crease down the front which fashion 
 prescribed, but they were also baggy at the knees. 
 His slouch hat, very comfortable to the head as it was, 
 was altogether out of season. He resolved at once 
 to get a new suit the first thing Monday morning, 
 and a new hat also. Fortunately he had money saved 
 up and he could indulge his whim. He determined 
 to ask Kettleton where he ought to go to get his things. 
 
 When he consulted the bicycle young man that 
 evening after tea, while they were smoking their ci 
 gars on the stoop of the boarding - house in the warm 
 October evening, Mr. Kettleton was prompt with advice. 
 
 "You want to go to Benton s," he said "Benton 
 Brothers & Company, in Broadway, near Union Square 
 here ; that s where you want to go. They give you the 
 best value for your money see ? They don t sell hand- 
 me-downs, fit-you-like-the-paper-on-the-wall, Benton s 
 don t ; no, sir. Their suits are just as toney as if they 
 was custom-made on the avenue ; you see if they ain t. 
 Why, I ve met club-men coming out of there men 
 whose names you ll read in the Four Hundred every 
 week. Say, I ll take you in and introduce you ; the 
 head of the neckwear department is a great friend of 
 mine we went to school together in the old Sixth 
 Ward. But I can t get a discount for you. I can t 
 get it for myself. It s a square game at Benton s 
 cash down and everybody treated all alike. So you 
 don t have to pay more than the Prince of Wales 
 would, if he was to come over in a hurry and go in 
 there for a new swallow-tail see ?" 
 
 And Mr. Kettleton was as good as his word. On
 
 62 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 Monday morning, before going to his work, he es 
 corted Sartain into the large establishment of Benton 
 Brothers ,,& Company, and he aided the new-comer 
 in making & proper selection. As the suit chosen 
 fitted without alteration, Sartain kept it on and paid 
 for it. 
 
 As they w^re leaving the clothing -store together, 
 Kettleton looked into a tall mirror and bade Sartain 
 do the same. 
 
 "It s^a daisy fit, that suit is," he said, "but then 
 you ve got a figure for clothes. I wish I had, but I m 
 too thin/ 
 
 Sartain was not accustomed to consider his personal 
 appearance ; and it may have been this casual remark 
 of Kettleton s which caused him to have an acute con 
 sciousness of his new clothes. For the first time in his 
 life, to the best of his recollection, he felt himself to 
 be well dressed. It was almost with a strut of self-sat 
 isfaction that he walked from Union Square to the tall 
 building in which Carington & Company had their 
 offices. He was so keenly aware of the new suit that 
 he found himself examining the faces of the people he 
 passed to see if they were also noticing it. In the ele 
 vator going up he stood, rather than trust the immac 
 ulate cloth upon a leather seat which did not seem to 
 be as clean as it might be. 
 
 But all thought of his apparel vanished from his 
 mind when he came to the glass door on which was 
 painted the name of " Carington & Company, Publish 
 ers. Eli Low, Manager." It was not without trepi 
 dation that he entered the offices where he had been 
 engaged to work for the next few months. 
 
 But he was soon set at ease by the business-like man-
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 63 
 
 ner of Mr. Low, who bade him welcome briefly, and 
 who then proceeded succinctly to declare the exact nat 
 ure of the task Sartain was expected to accomplish, 
 lie was to have his own little room ; and there was a 
 type -writer whose services he could command when 
 need be. For the rest, Mr. Low himself would be 
 there every day ; and if Mr. Sartain needed any fur 
 ther advice, he was to apply for it when it was 
 wanted. 
 
 Before the end of his first week Sartain began to 
 doubt whether he should ever understand New York. 
 He resented its self-satisfied attitude, its air of calm 
 superiority, apparently unaware of the existence of any 
 other city in the United States, its absolute freedom 
 from any jealousy of its would-be rivals, its cold con 
 ceit in deeming itself so exalted that competition was 
 out of the question. In spite of the semi-hostility of 
 his attitude when he came to town, he had felt at once 
 the reserve power of the place, its irresistible force, its 
 superb vitality. New York was too big, too noisy, too 
 ugly, too blatant ; but, for all that, he yielded himself 
 to its domination inevitably. 
 
 And he set himself to study the city as though it 
 were a problem. If its secret could be rung from it by 
 a resolute determination to attain all possible knowl 
 edge, then Sartain made sure that in good time he 
 would possess himself of it. He found there was but 
 little daylight left when five o clock came and his 
 office-hours were over, but he took advantage of what 
 time there was, and of his sixty minutes nooning. He 
 went for long walks in the evening ; and once he got 
 up at daybreak to see the markets. His unfriendli 
 ness faded away rapidly, and before the end of his first
 
 64 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 week he was ready to acknowledge that Xew York had 
 conquered him. 
 
 That it was a city of startling contrasts was the first 
 result of his investigation ; and he had known that be 
 fore. Nowhere else in the world were the extremes of 
 wealth and poverty more conspicuous. Up-town, near 
 Central Park, there were half a dozen houses the own 
 ers of which had each a royal income indeed, a reve 
 nue the half of which more than one actual king in 
 Europe would be very glad to possess ; and down-town, 
 east of the Bowery, was a district more densely inhab 
 ited than any part of the most congested town in Eu 
 rope. Moral contrasts were as obvious as physical, and 
 they arrested Sartain s attention even more swiftly. 
 Instances of ethical destitution and squalor he could 
 collect at will, and also examples of lofty austerity. 
 He was told one day of a religious corporation that 
 owned some of the most neglected tenement-houses in 
 the city, and that even went to law to resist an order to 
 make these wretched dwellings habitable ; and the next 
 night he heard, casually, that one of the most noted 
 of the very wealthy men of New York held himself to 
 be but a steward of his own riches, not only distribu 
 ting his means with cautious liberality, but also giving 
 his personal service on obscure committees of minor 
 charitable societies. 
 
 Again and again, during his first week in New York, 
 Sartain had asked himself how he could soonest see 
 the girl he loved. He did not know where she lived. 
 It was at the Vivians he had met her, and it was there 
 only that he could hope to meet her once more. Mr. 
 Vivian had kindly bidden him to come in for a cup of 
 tea any Saturday afternoon ; but Sartain was afraid it
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 65 
 
 might seem like forwardness if he were to take ad 
 vantage of this invitation for the very first day that it 
 was open. 
 
 Even after he had had his luncheon and knew that 
 he had the rest of the afternoon all to himself, he 
 was still undecided, wavering between his intense de 
 sire to see her and his unwillingness to appear pushing. 
 His love was strong, but it was also new, while his shy 
 ness was of long standing, and its roots were deep 
 down in him. To listen to the chatter of the twins 
 and to shake hands heartily with Johnny would be a 
 fearful pleasure for him; he would enjoy it, no doubt, 
 but he shrank from it timorously. If he could only 
 make sure that he should find Esther Dircks at the 
 Vivians , he would take his courage in both hands and 
 go, even at the risk of seeming obtrusive ; but there 
 was no certainty that she would be calling at the very 
 hour he called. 
 
 In this condition of hesitancy Sartain brushed his 
 hair very carefully and combed his thin brown beard. 
 For the first time in his life his personal appearance 
 began to interest Sartain seriously ; and he had taken 
 to reading the newspaper articles on men s fashions. 
 His habit of introspection and of self -analysis kept 
 him promptly aware of this new development of his ; 
 and he smiled at himself as he glanced in the glass of 
 the hat-rack in the lower hall of the boarding-house. 
 
 When he came out in the street the sun shone down 
 from a cloudless sky, and the day was resplendent with 
 the golden beauty of October. The tall plumes of 
 steanf waved from the high roofs of the big buildings. 
 Adams s eulogy of this city had opened his eyes to 
 things not. seen before. His realism had been rather
 
 66 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKROW 
 
 sordid, and he had looked down for his facts rather 
 than up. Now, as he walked up-toAvn, he hegan to 
 perceive that a basis of truth underlay Adams s ex 
 travagance. Sartain was ready to recognize that Xew 
 York had at times and in places a violent unkempt 
 picturesqueness, not without a charm of its own. 
 Few of the buildings were really beautiful; there Avas 
 so much high color as to produce a general effect of 
 spottiness ; there was no repose whatever. Yet the 
 incessant bustle Avas not unpleasing to him, and the 
 high notes did not jar on the eye of a young man 
 fresh from the West. As a Avhole, the city Avas in 
 tensely modern, and it Avas ever vibrating with vital 
 ity. The roar that rose from it no longer smote upon 
 Sartain s ears as the shriek of a Avild beast ; it rang 
 there now rather as a paean of progress ; it AA T as a chant 
 of triumphant Avork. 
 
 When he came to the book -stores between Four 
 teenth Street and TAventy-third he lingered to look 
 in their AvindoAvs, and to pick out the fine editions 
 he would haA r e in his library when he was a successful 
 author and had a house of his OAvn. He compared the 
 more or less flamboyant posters which called attention 
 to popular novels; and he devised one for Dust and 
 Ashes Avhich should be as startling as any of these 
 and more alluring. 
 
 As Sartain Avent on up Fifth Avenue, he felt again 
 that no novelist could have a more enticing theme or a 
 grander than to reproduce in one mighty story all the 
 immense movement of human life in the metropolis of 
 the New World, where men and women from every coun 
 try in the Old World Avere mingled together, and Avhere 
 the American spirit was most obvious in spite of the
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 67 
 
 presence of more foreigners than in any other city of the 
 Union. In Dust and Ashes Sartain had tried to show 
 only one cross-section of city life ; he had confined his 
 attention almost entirely to the villains of Wall Street 
 and to their victims ; and he recognized now more 
 than ever that Wall Street was not all of New York. 
 In the week since his arrival from Topeka he had seen 
 vista after vista opening before his vision ; and it 
 seemed to him that there was no end to the points of 
 view from which the complexities of metropolitan life 
 could be surveyed. 
 
 Then it was that Sartain resolved to write the prose 
 epic of the great city ; to try to do for New York 
 what Zola had done for France ; to show every impor 
 tant aspect of the metropolis one after another ; and 
 to relate these one to the other, so that while the 
 separate parts should be each complete in itself, the 
 whole should also have a unity of its own due to the 
 harmonious adjustment of its division and to its own 
 massive structure. He began at once to plan how he 
 could incorporate Dust and Ashes in this larger scheme, 
 recalling with pleasure the fact that Balzac had not 
 thought of the Human Comedy until after he had 
 written a dozen or more of the novels he afterwards 
 wrought into his grand framework. 
 
 Thus engaged, he came to Central Park ; and a few 
 minutes later he rang the bell of Vivian s apartment. 
 
 The neat maid with the white cap opened the door. 
 
 " Is Mr. Vivian in this afternoon ?" Sartain asked, 
 confidently. 
 
 "No; sir/ was the unexpected response. 
 
 " He s not in ?" Sartain said, in surprise. 
 
 " No, sir," the maid answered. Observing the de-
 
 68 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 spondency of the visitor s face, she added: "But the 
 young ladies are at home." 
 
 Then Sartain s courage failed him. 
 
 "I I wanted to see Mr. Vivian very particularly/ 
 he hesitated. "But I I haven t time this afternoon 
 to call on the young ladies. I I will come again." 
 And with that exhibition of sudden shyness he turned 
 away and rang for the elevator. 
 
 Five minutes later he regretted what he had done 
 with poignant self-reproach, for he passed Miss Esther 
 Dircks and her father, to whom she was listening de 
 votedly. 
 
 When he saw them Sartain stopped short, hut so 
 intent was she on what her father was saying that she 
 did not see the young man. Old Dircks flashed a 
 look of inquiry from under his bushy eyebrows, but 
 Esther did not remark this. They had passed him be 
 fore he had recovered his self-possession. Then it was 
 too late. He could not run after the girl in the street. 
 He could not do anything, it seemed to him just then, 
 except make a fool of himself. He wanted to gladden 
 his eyes by another look at her. He turned and saw 
 the old man and the young woman go up the steps of 
 the Vivians apartment-house. Then he walked back 
 to Irving Place slowly, abusing himself all the way 
 down. 
 
 That evening, just as he was finishing his dinner, a 
 letter bearing a special-delivery stamp was brought 
 to him. He did not recognize the handwriting, and 
 he could not guess who it was that should be thus in 
 haste to have a communication reach him. 
 
 He tore it open and found that it was from Mr. 
 Vivian, regretting that he had been out that afternoon,
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-HOBBOW 69 
 
 and so deprived of the pleasure of a chat, and asking 
 Sartain if he would care to go to the next meeting 
 of the Contemporary Club 011 Wednesday evening of 
 the following week. If Sartain would answer at once 
 in the affirmative, Vivian would see that an invitation 
 was sent on Monday. 
 
 Sartain rushed up-stairs, got out a postal-card, and 
 wrote to Mr. Vivian, accepting with great pleasure and 
 expressing his thanks. He went out and posted this 
 at the corner. As he came back to the boarding-house 
 lie remembered that the next day was Sunday, and that 
 he could have taken time to write a more formal reply, 
 since, in any event, Mr. Vivian would not receive it 
 before Monday morning.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 SARTAIN" carefully studied the card of invitation of 
 the Contemporary Club, and he found in one corner : 
 
 Evening Dress. Ladies will please not wear bonnets. 
 
 He took out his dress-suit, which he had not put on 
 half a dozen times since the last concert of the college 
 glee club, but it seemed to him in good condition still. 
 He debated long whether he should wear a white tie 
 or a black one. Finally, when Wednesday came and 
 he dressed before dinner, he decided in favor of white. 
 
 He went down to the basement of the boarding- 
 house, conscious that he looked better in the dress- 
 suit than in his cutaway, and pleased with this con 
 sciousness. The tying of his white cravat had taken 
 time, and he was a little late for dinner. 
 
 " Got em all on, haven t you ?" Kettleton asked, 
 with friendly interest. ""What is it you re going to 
 take in to-night the Patriarchs? It s too soon for 
 the French ball or the Arion." 
 
 Sartain said that he was going to the meeting of the 
 Contemporary Club ; and then, as Kettleton had never 
 heard of this organization, he had to explain what it 
 was. Miss De Lancey came to his assistance, inform 
 ing the other boarders that she herself had once been 
 asked to read a paper before that club, on "Elocu-
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOEROW 71 
 
 tion, a Necessity of Modern Civilization/ but that she 
 had had an attack of bronchitis, which prevented her 
 from delivering her address. 
 
 Most of the conversation during the dinner was de 
 voted to clubs and to Society and to fashionable fads. 
 It struck Sartain that his going to the Contemporary 
 Club in a dress-suit had raised him in the estimation 
 of his fellow-boarders. Again it amused him to liken 
 himself to Rastignac setting forth from the humble 
 Maison Vauquier to the most aristocratic entertain 
 ments in Paris. 
 
 When Sartain entered the building where the club 
 was to meet it was just eight o clock, and carriage 
 was following carriage to the door. He gave up his 
 ticket, and was directed to a dressing-room in which 
 two or three attendants were waiting to take his hat 
 and overcoat. Then he looked himself over in the 
 glass in the dressing-room, and curled the ends of his 
 mustache, smiling tolerantly at his own fatuity, since 
 he could see other men all around him wearing dress- 
 suits with complete unconcern. He tightened his 
 white tie and went into the corridor. 
 
 There he heard the monotonous voice of the man 
 who was calling out the names of the guests that 
 pressed forward two by two. Sartain took his place 
 in the column, and after the crier had announced 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Enry Arris," he found himself in the 
 doorway of the reception-room. He gave his name, 
 and heard it bawled forth, " Mr, Frank Sartain !" 
 Then he saw he was in the presence of five ladies in 
 evening dress, standing in a row, and all bowing to the 
 new-comers. 
 
 Sartain bowed also, and walked on, not knowing
 
 72 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 what he was expected to do next. He looked about, 
 hoping to descry Mr. Vivian, and longing to catch a 
 glimpse of Esther Dircks, if by good-fortune she were 
 present. But he saw nobody that he knew in the re 
 ception-room, and he discovered that the guests wero 
 passing through to the adjoining ballroom. This was 
 spacious, and filled with camp-chairs ; there was a 
 small platform at one side, with a table, half a dozen 
 arm-chairs, and three or four tall palms in pots. While 
 he was trying to select an inconspicuous seat, he heard 
 the crier behind him call out, " Mr. Dircks ! Miss 
 Dircks !" 
 
 Sartain turned back at once and resolved to inter 
 cept them. He beheld Dircks stare with surprise at 
 the ladies receiving, and then acknowledge their bows 
 with what was little better than a nod. He saw Esther 
 courtesy most gracefully ; and he was dimly aware that 
 she was clad in some light blue stuff^ which made her 
 more vaporous than ever. He felt that at last he had 
 a chance to push his acquaintance with her, and he 
 stepped forward to meet them. His heart beat fast, 
 but he conquered his timidity by a violent effort of 
 the will. He wondered even if she would recognize 
 him, since they had met but once. 
 
 As she drew near him she looked up and caught his 
 eye. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Sartain !" she said, smiling. " I thought 
 we should see you here this evening. Johnny told me 
 her father had sent you a card. He gave us ours, too." 
 
 " It was very kind of him," was all that Sartain could 
 find words to say, ill at ease again in the presence of 
 the one woman before whom he wished always to ap 
 pear at his best.
 
 IX TIIR PKESEXCE OF THE ONE WOMAN
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 73 
 
 The girl did not seem to be conscious of his embar 
 rassment. She turned to her father, who had stood 
 silently a little behind her, gazing intently at the young 
 man from under his shaggy eyebrows. 
 
 " Father/ she said, " this is Mr. Sartain, whom I met 
 at Mr. Vivian s a week or two ago." 
 
 " I ve seen you somewhere, I think ; haven t I ?" 
 asked Mr. Dircks, in a deep, mellow voice, holding out 
 his ungloved hand ; " coming out of Mr. Vivian s about 
 a week ago ?" 
 
 The young man explained that he had passed Mr. 
 Dircks twice, once in Mr. Vivian s apartment -house, 
 and once just outside its door. Then the elder man 
 released his hand, saying, "I knew I d seen you some- 
 whercs or other." 
 
 Sartain was greatly interested in Esther s father, 
 partly because he was her father and partly because 
 the man himself was unconventional. The young fel 
 low thought how well the name Raphael Dircks fitted 
 the old man, incongruous as were the suavity of the 
 Christian name and the sharpness of the patronymic. 
 "Raphael" suggesting something child-like, innocent, 
 ignorant of the world, as Esther s father appeared to 
 be ; and "Dircks" was tense and piercing, as the old 
 man seemed to be also when he raised his bushy eye 
 brows and transfixed Sartain with a glance. 
 
 It was Esther who broke the silence with a little 
 laugh. "Well, why are we all standing here?" she 
 asked. "I m afraid all the best seats will be gone, 
 and I Avant father to have a good one, for he likes to 
 hear every word. Isn t the room filling up, Mr. Sar- 
 taiii ?" 
 
 " I don t know," the young man answered, as they
 
 74 A CONFIDENT TO-MOBBOW 
 
 entered the ballroom. " I didn t look that is, I was 
 looking when I heard your names announced, and I 
 and I " Here he broke off inconsequently. 
 
 "I think we had better try to get on the centre 
 aisle don t you, father ?" the girl continued. "Per 
 haps we can find three places together, and Mr. Sartain 
 can sit with us." 
 
 "I shall be delighted/ Sartain answered; "that s 
 exactly what I was hop 
 
 " Here are two seats," interrupted Dircks. 
 
 " Then you and Mr. Sartain can have them," Esther 
 returned, "and I will take this one just behind you." 
 
 The young man protested at once. He could not 
 think of separating father and daughter. He begged 
 that he might be allowed to take the single chair be 
 hind. 
 
 " Oh, very well, then," she returned, " if you in 
 sist," and with that she passed in and left the seat 
 on the aisle for her father. " Only I thought that 
 perhaps you two would know so much more about 
 what they are going to discuss here to - night that 
 you might like to talk it over together, and I could 
 listen." 
 
 So saying, she arranged herself on the seat, and her 
 father took the chair next. Sartain sat down behind 
 the old man, and, to his delight, he discovered that he 
 could talk to her almost as well as if he were by her 
 side, while he could look at her far more easily. 
 
 When they were settled she glanced back at him 
 and said, " You see, Mr. Sartain, I don t know any 
 thing at all about politics, and father is awfully inter 
 ested in them. Sometimes he tries to talk to me about 
 them ; but it s not a bit of good I never can under-
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 75 
 
 stand them. I m very glad I haven t a vote, for I 
 should never know what to do with it." 
 
 Her voice fell on Sartain s ears like exquisite music, 
 and her face rose above the light blue of her dress 
 like some rare flower, delicate and priceless. He had 
 hitherto been inclined to approve of woman-suffrage ; 
 but since she did not want the ballot, he 110 longer saw 
 the necessity of forcing it upon the sex. 
 
 " Perhaps it would not be fair to insist on a wom 
 an s going to the polls," he declared. Then his hon 
 esty compelled him to add, " But there are many noble 
 women who want the ballot, and it is not easy to re 
 fuse them, is it ?" 
 
 " It would be horrid to make us vote if we didn t 
 want to, wouldn t it ?" the girl returned, lightly. 
 "They couldn t do that, could they?" 
 
 " I should call it a most high-handed proceeding if 
 they did," Sartain agreed, smiling back at her. 
 
 Here Mr. Dircks turned himself around in his seat 
 and said, " I don t see as a woman has any more use 
 for a vote than a pig has for a ring in his nose. A 
 ward -meeting over a bar-room ain t any place for a 
 woman." 
 
 Thus appealed to, Sartain agreed again. " I suppose 
 that politics is often a dirty business at best and per 
 haps women are better off out of it." 
 
 " That s what I think," Dircks declared, and then 
 he sank back into silence. He struck Sartain as a 
 man not prone to conversation, and with difficulty 
 rinding words to express himself. Even if Dircks s 
 manner was a little gruff, the brusqueness was ap 
 parent only ; it was not intentional ; and there was 
 true kindliness underneath it. But no weakness was
 
 76 A COXFIDEXT TO-MORROW 
 
 visible in the old man s countenance. From the father 
 it was that the daughter derived her broad brow and 
 her resolute mouth. 
 
 The girl seemed to feel that it was her duty to en 
 tertain the young man, and she turned back to him 
 again, and asked, " Have you seen Johnny yet ? She 
 said she was coming with her father. You know Dora 
 and Theo never come to the Contemporary ; they say 
 it s slow and poky ! Now I don t think it is, do you ? 
 Even if I don t understand the speeches always, it is 
 lots of fun to watch the people." 
 
 " This is the first time I ve been to one of the meet 
 ings," Sartain responded. "You see, I haven t ever 
 been to New York before to stay." 
 
 "Why, of course not!" the girl returned, "you are 
 from the West, aren t you ? I should think you would 
 find New York so strange after the prairies and all 
 that !" 
 
 Sartain was delighted with the ease of her manner 
 and with the frankness of her speech. She made him 
 feel almost as though he were already an old friend of 
 hers. His shyness was in abeyance as long as he was 
 under the spell of her voice. 
 
 "Oh, there s Johnny," she cried, "and Mr. Vivian, 
 too !" and she waved her hand at two figures standing 
 in the arch of the reception-room. 
 
 The young man followed her eyes, and saw Mr. 
 Vivian and Mr. Vivian s eldest daughter. With his 
 masculine susceptibility to the effect of dress Sartain 
 was struck by the improvement in Johnny s appear 
 ance. There was still a suggestion of the mannish in 
 her handsome evening gown, but the lace at the open 
 throat softened the severity she chose to affect.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 77 
 
 " They don t sec us," said Esther Dircks, as the 
 Vivians turned up the aisle nearest to the entrance. 
 "Isn t it a pity ? I d love to have Johnny here and 
 then you and father could talk over the speeches with 
 Mr. Vivian, couldn t you ?" 
 
 This time Sartain was able to find a form of words 
 to express his perfect satisfaction with his position as 
 it was. 
 
 " That s very pretty indeed," the girl responded, with 
 the brilliant smile that lighted her face and transfigured 
 it. " But you can t talk to me much longer,, for there 
 come all the lady vice-presidents." 
 
 "The lady vice-presidents ?" Sartain queried. 
 
 " They were receiving," she explained ; " the ladies 
 who stood in a line at the door, you know. When al 
 most everybody has come, the gentlemen go and es 
 cort them to the first row there don t you see all the 
 chairs in front are reserved ? so they get the best 
 seats ; and I shouldn t wonder if they were glad enough 
 to sit down after standing out there so long and having 
 to bow to all sorts of old frumps." 
 
 While Esther Dircks was speaking, Sartain was 
 watching a procession which passed from the recep 
 tion-room down one of the aisles between the serried 
 chairs in the ballroom. The five ladies who had re 
 ceived advanced each on the arm of a gentleman, who 
 gave, her one of the reserved scats on the front row, 
 taking his place beside her. Behind these couples 
 came the two speakers of the evening. They had to 
 pause in the aisle while the ladies selected their seats 
 and adjusted their skirts. Then the president led 
 them to the platform, and they all sat down in the 
 comfortable arm-chairs. Soon the president rose to
 
 78 A COXFIDEXT TO-MORROW 
 
 his feet and transferred a tray with a pitcher of iced 
 water and three or four glasses from a table at the 
 back to one in the front of the little stage. Having 
 done this he stood behind this front table and sur 
 veyed the audience calmly. Sartain envied the com 
 posure with which he could stand there doing nothing 
 without embarrassment. 
 
 After waiting perhaps a minute, the president gave 
 half a dozen light taps with a gavel that lay ready to 
 his hand on the little table, and immediately all con 
 versation died down. Then, in fluent words, he wel 
 comed the members of the club and their guests to 
 the first meeting of the season. He outlined the pro 
 gramme for the winter, and announced that the sub 
 ject of the opening debate was " The Problem of 
 Modern Society." As the first speaker, he had great 
 pleasure in introducing the celebrated scientific an 
 archist, Herr Adolph Kreutzner, who would expound 
 the extremely radical view. 
 
 There was applause when the president sat down 
 and a thin little middle-aged man of mild appearance 
 rose and stepped to the edge of the platform. His 
 black hair was cut short and his black beard was 
 closely trimmed. He began with an apology for his 
 English and his accent and the rhythm of his de 
 livery were most unmistakably German. But his vo 
 cabulary was ample and his grammar was adequate, and 
 be spoke clearly and distinctly, even if monotonously. 
 Sartain soon perceived that the German was absolutely 
 devoid of humor, that he took himself and his mission 
 very seriously, and that he was almost passionless. 
 
 While listening to the opening remarks of the scien 
 tific anarchist, Sartaiu found that his eyes kept re-
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 79 
 
 turning to the girl who sat almost in front of him, and 
 who seemed to him far more charming than any other 
 woman in the room. He was glad that he was so 
 placed that he could stare at her without rudeness ; 
 and yet once, at least, he feared that the fixity of his 
 gaze might have made her uncomfortable, for a gentle 
 blush rose in her cheek and neck and died away only 
 as she glanced back at him with a little smile. Her 
 ashen hair shone under the glitter of the electric 
 lights like an alloy of silver and gold; there was one 
 wisp of it that would not stay in its place, and that 
 she tried to put back again with an unconscious gest 
 ure girlish and captivating. 
 
 In the meantime the lecturer had been pursuing 
 his argument. He had shown that monarchy, aris 
 tocracy, parliamentarism, democracy, and socialism 
 were necessary stages in the evolution of human so 
 ciety. Socialism, like democracy now, like parlia 
 mentarism in the past, is a step in advance, no doubt, 
 but it is not the final goal. It is only a mitigated 
 communism. It is imperfect and incomplete in that 
 it allows government to exist. If he governs best who 
 governs least, then anarchy is obviously the best form 
 of government. Under anarchy man is free to de 
 velop his own individuality absolutely. He is re 
 leased from all control. He is left to the guidance of 
 his own benevolent instincts unperverfced by mislead 
 ing education. Under anarchy there will be no privi 
 leges and no private property and no public property. 
 All men will be equal in all ways, entering freely and 
 gladly into voluntary associations for co - operative 
 works, every man taking orders only from himself, 
 and doing willingly that part of the labor for which
 
 80 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 he knows himself to be best fitted. Every man will 
 be encouraged to round out his own character to the 
 perfect sphere. Evil passions will inevitably be elimi 
 nated, since they are only the result of want, of envy, 
 and injustice, and must therefore disappear complete 
 ly with the conditions that caused them. With the 
 abolition of private property there disappears all pre 
 tence of any necessity for policemen, for police courts, 
 for judges, and for lawyers. With the abolition of gov 
 ernment the idea of nationality vanishes, and the sol 
 diers will be released from destructive work to do their 
 share of production ; and so the lawyers will be, and 
 the judges and the policemen and the jailers. With 
 the extinction of these noxious parasites the hours of 
 labor for any one individual need be but few, and only 
 enough to keep him in perfect physical condition. As 
 physiology has shown us that the highest pleasure 
 comes from the exercise of our natural functions, every 
 man will rejoice to do that part of the common task 
 in the doing of which he is the most dexterous ; and 
 as he is working also for his own satisfaction, he will 
 produce abundantly for the needs of the public with 
 out effort or fatigue or strain to himself. 
 
 With a stiff and military bow Herr Kreutzner made 
 an end of speaking. There was generous applause, 
 although Sartain suspected that it lacked warmth. A 
 rattle of conversation started at once all over the hull. 
 
 Esther Dircks turned back and asked Sartain what 
 he thought. 
 
 " I ve been used to supposing that I was pretty radi 
 cal myself," the young man answered; "I m a free 
 trader and a single taxer, and so on, but I can t go 
 as far as he does, can vou ?"
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 81 
 
 "Oh, I don t pretend to know anything about it/ 
 she responded. "I haven t a masculine mind, you 
 know. But it does seem a shame that something can t 
 be done about the tenements and the men out of work, 
 doesn t it ? Perhaps it would be going too far not to 
 have any government at all and I don t see how that 
 would help the poor, either." 
 
 Here the girl s father turned his large frame and 
 broke into the conversation. " He don t go far enough, 
 that Dutchman don t," Dircks declared. "He s too 
 mild. We can t get along without policemen, either 
 we Avant them to jail the rascals in Wall Street only 
 I d rather see some of them shot ! Why, I 
 
 At this moment the president of the club was heard 
 rapping again for silence, and all conversation ceased. 
 In the same flowing rhetoric he presented the second 
 speaker, Mr. Arnold Gillingham, the editor of the Wall 
 Street Standard. 
 
 Mr. Gillingham was undersized and underbred. But 
 those who Avere offended by his rasping voice and by his 
 domineering gestures could not but admit the ability 
 with which he presented his unwelcome views. He 
 began by saying that he would detain the members of 
 the Contemporary Club but a short time, as he could 
 not pay them the poor compliment of thinking that 
 they were imposed upon by such shallow sophistries 
 as they had been forced to listen to that evening. He 
 confessed that he had neither respect nor toleration 
 for professional agitators, who are revolutionists for 
 revenue only ; and he did not know which is the more 
 detestable, the dress-coat dynamiter or the parlor social 
 ist. The real leaders of reform have always been men 
 willing to make every sacrifice of place, of money, and,
 
 82 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 if need be, of life itself. The professional agitator, 
 who goes comfortably from drawing-room to drawing- 
 room dealing out the doctrine of discontent and riot 
 and rapine and murder, is risking nothing nothing 
 but his digestion. The only sacrifice he is ready to 
 make is like the one proposed by Artemus Ward the 
 sacrifice of his wife s relations. 
 
 Mr. Gillingham went on to declare that the German 
 gentleman had been right in saying that his beatific 
 vision of anarchy would be the millennium. It would 
 not come to pass till all the ordinary men and women 
 in the world had died off and the globe was repeopled 
 with angels. The policeman and the judge and the 
 soldier are the buttresses of civilization ; they are the 
 forces that keep the appetites of man in check and 
 under control. As Aristotle told us two thousand 
 years ago and more, there is no end of talk about 
 equalizing our riches, while what is urgent is to equal 
 ize our desires. And Heine reminded us half a cen 
 tury ago that communism made its appeal in a lan 
 guage understood by all the peoples of the earth, and 
 that the elements of this universal language were as 
 simple as hunger and envy and death all easy enough 
 to learn. If you persist in talking about the irrepressi 
 ble conflict between the classes and the masses that 
 is, between those who have and those who haven t 
 you are really exciting to riot. If you keep telling 
 men that the bloody conflict is bound to come sooner 
 or later, they are the quicker to act now ; they want 
 to get at the fighting and have it over, and enjoy the 
 spoils of Avar. That is what the parlor socialist and 
 the dress-coat dynamiter are doing they are making 
 it necessary for the forces that stand for law and order
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 83 
 
 to get ready to sweep the streets with the gatling-guns 
 of the regular army. And whenever that kind of street- 
 cleaning is to take place, it will be best for those who 
 are on the side of the broom and worst for those who 
 are swept into the gutter for the gutter will run with 
 blood. 
 
 So vehement was the manner of Mr. Gillingham 
 that the applause broke forth heartily when he sat 
 down, even though his personality was repugnant to 
 many. 
 
 The president asked Herr Kreutzner if he wished 
 to make any rejoinder ; and the calm German an 
 swered, courteously, that he saw no necessity for so 
 doing, as the logic of his position had not been as 
 sailed. 
 
 Thereupon the president announced, humorously, 
 that the feast of reason and the flow of soul had come 
 to an end, and that the guests of the club would find in 
 the reception-room adjoining a flow of coffee and feast 
 of cakes.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE chairs were pushed back and disarranged as 
 people pressed towards the room where the refresh 
 ments were. 
 
 " Gillingham just gave it to that nihilist, didn t 
 he ?" Sartain heard one voice ask ; and another an 
 swered, "That s so. Sharp as a steel-trap, isn t he?" 
 
 Dircks overheard this also. His face was flushed 
 with the excitement of the debate and his black eyes 
 were fiery under his fierce eyebrows. He was forging 
 ahead of his daughter and Sartain, who followed in his 
 wake as he thrust the chairs right and left out of his 
 way. Now he slowed up a little and spoke over his 
 shoulder to Sartain, who was close behind him. " Gil 
 lingham ?" he said, taking no pains to lower his voice, 
 "is that the little fellow s name ? Well, he s a skunk, 
 that s what he is ! And I ll tell him so if I get a 
 chance to-night. He s a liar, too !" 
 
 Sartain looked about to see if any one had heard this 
 unconventional outbreak, but he saw no reason to sup 
 pose that it had attracted any attention. 
 
 As they came near to the door they found them 
 selves approaching Mr. Vivian and his eldest daughter, 
 who promptly took possession of Esther. 
 
 " What did you think of the debate ?" the novelist 
 asked.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORKOAV 85 
 
 "It was very interesting indeed/ the young man 
 answered. "I don t hold with anarchy, but that Ger 
 man stated his case well, and I liked his sincerity." 
 
 Dircks agreed with a nod of his head. " lie meant 
 what he said, that s plain." 
 
 "That may well be," Vivian admitted, "yet they 
 Avere Avild and Avhirling words, after all. But Gilling- 
 ham, IIOAV, did you not think he Avas sincere, too ?" 
 
 "Ko," said Dircks, gruffly ; "the fellow is a skunk." 
 
 "I don t really knoAV," Sartain answered. "But 
 Avhatever his sincerity, he has no sympathy. There 
 isn t a drop of blood in him !" 
 
 " That s Avhat I meant !" Dircks declared, approv 
 ingly. 
 
 "Well," Vivian rejoined, "he lacks sympathy, I ll 
 admit. The only fellow he has any feeling for is him 
 self. I ve known him for years, and he seems to me a 
 type of the hard-headed, sharp-eyed, keen-Avitted, self- 
 satisfied man, quite able to hold his own in this plu 
 tocracy of ours, the existence of Avhich he accepts com 
 placently as inevitable, if not as ideal. lie s made his 
 paper pay, too." 
 
 "That s the Avorst of NCAV York," Sartain said; 
 " there isn t any paper on the poor man s side except 
 a fool paper or two. The best of the great dailies are 
 OAvned in Wall Street, and do Wall Street s dirty Avork. 
 Even the Aveeklies are most of them plutocratic. I ve 
 often Avondered if there Avasn t an opening here for a 
 journal Avhich should be really progressive and ready 
 to advocate advanced VICAVS Avith force and dignity 
 and Avefght. Most of the revieAvs in which a man can 
 speak out freely are open also to every crank in the 
 country."
 
 86 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 " Yes," commented Vivian, with his playful smile, 
 " I suppose it must be irritating to a serious reformer 
 to find himself forced to associate with the health-food 
 advocates, and the believers in Christian science, and 
 with all sorts of wild asses." 
 
 "I ve often thought about a paper," Sartain went 
 on, "which should voice the demands of the new day, 
 and yet so readable it would get a big circulation." 
 
 " Have you got a hundred thousand dollars in the 
 bank to start it with ?" Vivian asked, jocularly. 
 
 " It wouldn t take as much as that, would it ?" the 
 young man returned. 
 
 " I shouldn t think it safe to publish a new weekly, 
 even without illustrations, with less than fifty thou 
 sand, at all events," the novelist declared, "and a 
 hundred thousand might not be enough in the end. 
 Perhaps some philanthropic millionaire will endow a 
 reform weekly one of these fine days, and you may be 
 appointed editor." 
 
 "Perhaps," Sartain returned, in the same tone ; "but 
 I don t believe I d better give up my job with Caring- 
 ton & Company just yet." 
 
 Dircks listened to this easy talk with obvious inter 
 est, and yet without taking part in it. Xow Vivian 
 addressed him, and left Sartain free to join Esther and 
 Johnny. 
 
 While he had been conversing with their fathers he 
 had seen them sitting side by side, and he had ob 
 served Adams supplying them with refreshments. 
 
 "I didn t see you here during the debate," he said 
 to the artist. 
 
 "And you never will," Adams responded. "I cal 
 culate too carefully for that. I try to hit the hour
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 87 
 
 just too late for the gabble and not too late for the 
 gobble. To-night I got here not five minutes before 
 the eloquence was turned off, and Fve done my duty 
 I ve provided cold victuals for two poor girls, and 
 now I m going to get a bite for myself." 
 
 "One of the poor girls would like a marron glace," 
 said Esther. 
 
 " Let me get it for you !" exclaimed Sartain, spring 
 ing forward. 
 
 " Well, it is your turn now," the artist allowed, as 
 they started towards the refreshment-table together. 
 
 When Sartain was able to return with a dishful of 
 chestnuts and macaroons, he found that Adams was 
 also back again with a plate of salad for himself. 
 
 lie longed to take the girl he loved apart, to have 
 her all to himself, apart from this glitter and this 
 babble ; he would have liked to snatch her away so 
 that he alone could talk to her without interruption. 
 But he discovered that Esther Dircks listened to Ad 
 ams with pleasure, as though his liveliness amused her 
 or was it that she was really interested in the paint 
 er ? As that suggestion flashed upon him, Sartain 
 found himself ready to hate Adams. 
 
 "You made a mistake to-night, Madams," said 
 Johnny, " not to get here for the speeches. They 
 were really interesting, particularly what that German 
 nihilist said." 
 
 "I know the sort of thing you had to listen to," 
 Adams retorted "the speech that is an hour and 
 forty minutes passing a given point. And that s sheer 
 waste of time, because you can boil the nihilist doc 
 trine down to a single sentence nobody ain t never to 
 have nothing nohow."
 
 88 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 Just then ail old lady arose and left vacant the seat 
 next to Esther. Adams dropped into it at once. 
 
 "Isn t there something else that you want?" he 
 asked her. " If there is, send Sartain for it. I m too 
 weary to budge/ 
 
 " He s pretty cool, isn t he ?" laughed Esther. 
 
 " He is, indeed," Johnny answered ; " when he 
 comes down to stay with us in the country we use 
 him to freeze the ice-cream for us." 
 
 " I wonder Avhere this club gets all the cranks and 
 the freaks it exhibits," Adams remarked. " It must 
 have a quarry of its own where it digs them up that 
 is, unless it borrows them from the Museum of Natu 
 ral History. In all my life I never saw such a crowd 
 of long-haired men and short-haired women. Nihil 
 ists? Well, I should think so. Who wouldn t want to 
 be annihilated if he looked like the strange wild beasts 
 they have here ?" 
 
 " Really, you ought not to talk that way," said 
 Esther, gently. " Father nearly always finds the de 
 bates here very enjoyable." 
 
 " Oh, your father " began Adams, who suddenly 
 checked himself, and continued, lamely, "your father 
 well, he s very good-natured, that s all he s easily 
 pleased." 
 
 " Do you say that because he likes you, Madams ?" 
 asked Johnny, slyly, whereat Esther and Sartain laugh 
 ed heartily. 
 
 The artist joined in the merriment. " That s one 
 for you," he said. " I m keeping tab on the number of 
 times you score off me, and you are nearly even now." 
 
 Again Sartain wished that he had the assurance of 
 Adams, the self-control and even temper. It struck
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 89 
 
 him that Esther liked to have the artist sitting by her 
 side, and that there was now a certain air of animation 
 about her which he had failed to note before. Appar 
 ently the fixity of his stare attracted her attention, for 
 she looked up, and their glances met, and he dropped 
 his eyes, but not before he had seen her bright smile. 
 While he was reproaching himself for his rudeness, 
 it pleased him to think that she did not dislike him 
 seemingly, and that, at all events, she treated him in 
 a friendly fashion. 
 
 "Is Johnny s father easy to please, too?" asked 
 Esther, as the pause in the conversation protracted 
 itself, "for he likes the Contemporary, you know." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Vivian," the artist returned, "he comes 
 here to get characters. All novelists are always look 
 ing for new characters just as painters are after new 
 models." 
 
 " Madams," said Johnny, " do you think my father 
 is as much in need of a new character as well, as 
 others who are here to-night ?" 
 
 While Esther and Sartain were laughing at this sec 
 ond hit, the artist raised a deprecating hand. 
 
 "That isn t one on me," he cried. "I deny that 
 one. My character is like my conscience it s in ex 
 cellent repair." 
 
 " I suppose that s because your conscience is in no 
 danger of being worn out by over-use," Johnny sug 
 gested, Avith her eyes twinkling behind her little gold 
 eye-glasses. 
 
 " You can count that one," Adams admitted. " I 
 left them in position for you, and it was my fault you 
 made your carom. But you ask your father if he 
 doesn t think that the creatures who come to this Con-
 
 90 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 temporary Club of his are a very variegated lot. Why, 
 he told me himself yesterday that one man whom, he 
 had invited for to-night had accepted on a postal-card. 
 On a postal-card ! That tells you what kind of being 
 comes here. I wish I knew who it was ; but your 
 father wouldn t tell me." 
 
 If Adams happened to look up, and had seen the 
 blood rush to Sartain s face, and then slowly recede, 
 he might have guessed easily that the being who had 
 been guilty of this act stood before him. 
 
 Perhaps Esther perceived the blush and divined the 
 redness ; and perhaps Johnny knew. At any rate, both 
 of the girls promptly came to Sartain s relief. 
 
 " I don t see that that is so very awful," said Esther. 
 " Why shouldn t a man write on a postal ?" 
 
 " What are postal-cards for, anyhow ?" Johnny asked. 
 " Why does the government print them, if you won t 
 allow a man to use them ?" 
 
 Sartain said nothing. He was grateful to the girls 
 for their defence of his act ; and yet he burned all over 
 at the thought that perhaps they suspected him, and 
 were championing his cause from feminine tact. 
 
 " What are knives for ?" retorted the artist. " Not 
 to eat pie." 
 
 Sartain felt that he ought to intervene in the discus 
 sion. He swallowed a lump in his throat, and began 
 with an inarticulate murmur, which made them all 
 look up. AVhereupon he felt more uncomfortable than 
 ever and blushed again. 
 
 "In the Middle West," he managed to say, at last, 
 " I think it would be allowable to use a postal-card to 
 accept an invitation I mean that is from one man 
 to another."
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 91 
 
 " Oh, the Middle West," returned Adams. " If you 
 mean Chicago, I know all about it. I went out there 
 once to paint a couple of portraits. Well, in the Mid 
 dle West, then, they give you tea with your dinner. 
 Now, a man who wants tea with his dinner would 
 write a proposal of marriage on a postal-card, I don t 
 doubt. And when he comes East on a cattle-train, he 
 is invited to the Contemporary Club. That s jtvhat I 
 said at first, didn t I ?" 
 
 Johnny seemed to think that this conversation had 
 lasted long enough. " Madams," she said, holding out 
 her empty ice-cream plate, "I will graciously permit 
 you to put this down for me." 
 
 "Allow me," said Sartain, taking it from her, and 
 then relieving Esther also of her plate. 
 
 " That s right," Adams declared, as he continued to 
 eat his own salad. "You let Sartain wait on you. 
 I ve served my time. Besides, if I were to get up, he 
 would take my seat and I am very comfortable as I 
 am." 
 
 " Can t I get you some more ice-cream ?" Sartain 
 asked. 
 
 " No, thank you," Esther responded. " But I hope 
 you will get something for yourself." 
 
 "That s so," agreed Johnny. "The poor man 
 hasn t had a bite yet." 
 
 Sartain took the two empty plates to the long table 
 in the centre of the room, brilliant with candelabra 
 and crowded with silver dishes ; and in time he was 
 able to get one of the waiters to give him a croquette 
 or two", and a few leaves of lettuce. 
 
 When he tried to return he had to twist in and out 
 through a throng of ladies. On the edge of this
 
 93 A CONFIDENT TO-MORTIOW 
 
 feminine maze he found Johnny, who had risen to 
 speak to a passing friend. Now, instead of returning 
 to her seat by the side of Esther, she seemed to prefer 
 standing. 
 
 "I m glad you were able to get your salad at last," 
 she began, and he had to take his stand beside her. 
 "Sometimes, when there is a crowd like this, we run 
 out of something." 
 
 Sartain looked over Johnny s broad shoulder at 
 Adams sitting by the side of Esther and talking to 
 her with animation. He wished that Johnny was not 
 detaining him and that he could go over and thrust 
 himself into the conversation of the others. 
 
 Then suddenly he bethought himself how rude he 
 must seem to Mr. Vivian s daughter in not responding 
 to her remark ; and so he declared at last, as though 
 he had been trying to make up his mind about it, 
 "This salad is really very good, isn t it ?" 
 
 "It isn t half bad, as they say in London," she 
 answered ; "but if you are a judge of salads, I must 
 get papa to make you one." 
 
 "Mr. Vivian make a salad!" he ejaculated in sur 
 prise, wondering how long Adams was going to sit 
 there next to Esther Dircks. 
 
 "You didn t know papa did that sort of thing?" 
 Johnny asked. " Well, he does, and he s very proud 
 of it, too. lie says he s willing to admit that old 
 Dumas could write a more popular novel than he can, 
 but he denies that Dumas could make a better salad." 
 
 Some of Johnny s ways had struck him at first as 
 unduly mannish, but she had feminine tact also, for 
 she was able to put him at his ease. Having been in 
 love with Esther from the first hour he had spoken to
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 93 
 
 her, the young man had neglected the other girls he 
 had met that same afternoon ; they had interested him 
 merely as her friends and associates. But this evening, 
 captured on his way to join Esther, he was forced to 
 consider Johnny. To his surprise he discovered that 
 she was really almost handsome. She was about of his 
 own age and almost of his own height. Like her sis 
 ters she was inclined to be plump ; but her figure 
 though full was a little slighter than theirs. There 
 was a hint of masculine severity in the simplicity of 
 her well-cut evening-gown, but even this suited her 
 style, so Sartain admitted. 
 
 Probably he let the conversation drop, for Johnny 
 noted the direction of his gaze and turned so that she 
 could see what he Avas looking at. 
 
 Then she deftly shifted the subject of their talk. 
 "Isn t that delicate shade of blue becoming to Es 
 ther ?" she said. 
 
 "It is, I suppose," Sartain responded, "but then I 
 should think Miss Dircks would look well in any 
 thing." 
 
 " Yes," said Johnny, cordially, "her coloring is ex 
 quisite. It s no wonder an artist like Madams admires 
 her so much." 
 
 "Admires her so much ?" he repeated, stupidly, as 
 he held his fork suspended half way to his mouth. 
 
 "Can t you see that he simply adores her?" she re 
 plied. " Where are your eyes ? Just look at him this 
 very minute." 
 
 Now that Sartain had been told, he could see how 
 devotedly the artist was addressing the girl. A chill 
 dread clutched his heart as he asked a question. 
 
 " Are they are they engaged ?"
 
 94 A CONFIDENT TO-MOBBOW 
 
 " Oh dear, no," Johnny answered. 
 
 Sartain drew in a long sigh of relief, straightened 
 himself up, and squared his shoulders. 
 
 "At least, they are not engaged yet," returned 
 Johnny. "But of course I do not know what may 
 happen sooner or later. Madams must have proposed 
 to her three or four times, I should suppose, and 
 Esther always rejects him, and he refuses to be dis 
 couraged. Perhaps, d la longue, as they say in Paris, 
 she may change her mind." 
 
 " She may change her mind !" Sartain echoed, auto 
 matically, as his heart sank again. A waiter happened 
 to pass then, and he thrust into the man s hands his 
 plate with the most of the croquette still on it. 
 
 "You see, Madams is a very amusing fellow," she 
 continued. "He is good company always. Perhaps 
 some day Esther will discover that he is not a bad 
 thing to have in the house." 
 
 Again Sartain contrasted himself with Adams, to his 
 own disadvantage. Yet he refused to admit that the 
 artist s affection for Esther, great as it might be and 
 it was the older undoubtedly was as powerful as his 
 own. With all the ardor of youth he believed that 
 love must respond to love. So he took heart again, 
 and in his mind he made ready for a long struggle. 
 The odds were against him, no doubt, but he was no 
 coward, and he refused to admit that he could be 
 beaten, however superior his rival might be. 
 
 " Yes," he managed to repeat, "Mr. Adams is good 
 company." 
 
 "And he is a rising man, too," Johnny declared. 
 "For all his willingness to play the fool and make us 
 laugh and all that, he takes his art very seriously."
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 95 
 
 Does he ?" asked Sartain, wondering whether any 
 one of Adams s pictures Avas better in its way than 
 Dust and Aslies, and resolving at once to begin a new 
 book, which should be Avholly without the defects he 
 had already perceived in his first novel. 
 
 "Yes," Johnny went on. "Papa says that to hear 
 Madams talk you wouldn t think he could paint at all, 
 but lie can. He had a second medal at the Salon last 
 year." 
 
 "Indeed?" Sartain commented, instantly wishing 
 there was in literature some equivalent for the Salon, 
 where novelists might compete for medals. 
 
 " And he s one of the best illustrators in New York," 
 Mr. Vivian s daughter added. " Papa would rather 
 have Madams make the pictures for his stories than 
 anybody else." 
 
 Sartain let his fancy travel swiftly into the future ; 
 and in his mind he promptly arranged all the details 
 of the scene in which, after he was engaged to Esther, 
 and after the editor of the Metropolis had accepted his 
 serial either Dust and Ashes, or the better story he was 
 going to write next he should suggest that he would 
 like to have Mr. Emerson Adams employed to prepare 
 the illustrations. Then the absurdity of this vain im 
 agining suddenly struck him and he laughed bitterly. 
 
 Johnny looked at him in surprise, and he made 
 haste to apologize awkwardly, confessing frankly that 
 his attention had wandered. 
 
 "That s not very complimentary to me, is it ?"she 
 asked, with a slight flush. 
 
 The young man involved himself in further explana 
 tions, in the course of which his mind went astray 
 again, for he saw Esther had been left alone, and his
 
 96 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 immediate desire was to rush to her and capture the 
 empty chair by her side. He recognized, however, that 
 he could not leave Johnny standing alone. His first 
 thought was to get her to gravitate with him towards 
 her father, to whom he might abandon her without 
 discourtesy. While he was endeavoring to accomplish 
 this manoeuvre, he wondered why it was that Esther 
 did not join them. She sat there alone quite tran 
 quilly, and once she caught Sartain s eye and they ex 
 changed a smile ; but she made no motion to rise. He 
 could not ask her to come to him, and he could not 
 break away to go to her. Fortunately the throng was 
 now thinning ; and as Sartain once and again stepped 
 out of the Avay of ladies who wished to say good-night 
 to friends on the other side of the room, he was able 
 to guide Johnny nearer and nearer to Mr. Vivian. 
 
 But to Sartain s disappointment, just as he was 
 about to answer some casual remark of Johnny s by an 
 appeal to her father, whereby the other group would 
 be included in their conversation, Mr. Vivian detached 
 himself from Dircks and Adams and Avalked over to 
 Esther. 
 
 At the risk of repeating his rudeness to Johnny, 
 Sartain kept watch on the woman he loved and on the 
 man who was noAV talking to her. He noted the smile 
 of pleasure with which she welcomed Mr. Vivian, and 
 the self-possession with which she suggested that he 
 take the seat by her side. 
 
 And then to Sartain s astonishment he saw the same 
 look in Mr. Vivian s eyes when they were fixed 011 
 Esther Dircks that he had already seen in Adams s. 
 Did this mean that the elder novelist was also in love 
 with her ? Sartain doubted whether this Avouhl not
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 97 
 
 bo a more serious rivalry than the artist s. But what 
 right had Mr. Vivian to enter the lists against a young 
 man ? he had had one wife already, and that was his 
 full share ; besides, he had a daughter older than Es 
 ther, and it was indecent of him to make love to her. 
 
 So perturbed Avas he by this strange discovery that 
 he omitted to support his share of the conversation 
 with Johnny. 
 
 At last, when he had failed to make any response to 
 a remark of hers repeated twice, Mr. Vivian s daughter 
 followed the direction of his stare and discovered that 
 he was gazing at Esther. Again the flush came into 
 her cheeks and this time it lingered a little longer. 
 AVith no further attempt to recall the attention of the 
 young man, she turned to Adams, who was now at her 
 elbow talking to Mr. Dircks. 
 
 Sartain stood there alone for a minute or two, watch 
 ing every expression that fleeted over Esther s face. 
 To his surprise, he saw that the attentions of Mr. Viv 
 ian, old as the man was, were welcome to her, and 
 that she seemed to enjoy his conversation, laughing 
 gayly. Sartain had conceived of Esther as an ethereal 
 being, so spiritual as to be above all mortal failings. 
 Now he asked himself if he had been wholly mistaken 
 and if the girl were merely a heartless coquette. 
 
 How long he stood there in self-torture, twisting the 
 end of his beard, in the middle of the rapidly deplet 
 ing crowd, he did not know. Then he recovered his 
 self-possession. Blushing at the rudeness with which 
 he had treated Johnny, he looked up to find that she 
 was no longer before him. He turned hastily, to dis 
 cover her by his side, chatting with Mr. Dircks and 
 Adams. 
 
 7
 
 98 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 "I bog your pardon," he began, clumsily. "I I 
 don t know what came over me just then. I m afraid 
 my my wits were wool-gathering." 
 
 "Don t apologize," she said, icily. "It i-s of no 
 consequence, I assure you." 
 
 " My wits go wool-gathering sometimes," Adams re 
 marked, "and " 
 
 " And then it s a case of much cry and little AVOO! !" 
 Johnny interrupted, with a hard laugh. The flush had 
 gone from her face, but there was a tiny spot of red 
 high on each cheek. 
 
 "Little Bo-Peep, I am not one of your sheep," the 
 artist retorted. "I m my own master." 
 
 " I don t think it is a proof of self-possession that 
 you should be able to give yourself away so often," 
 Johnny rejoined. "Do you?" 
 
 " I m not always self-possessed," Adams responded. 
 " I m either abounding in assurance or else I m ex 
 cessive in awkwardness. Why, I ve put my foot in 
 it so often I m sometimes afraid I must be really a 
 centipede." 
 
 In his existing state of mind Sartain was glad that 
 he was not called upon to take part in the conver 
 sation. He listened to it perfunctorily, having again 
 changed his position so as to bring Esther and Vivian 
 again Avithin his range of vision. He did not notice 
 that Dircks had suddenly left them, after having stood 
 for a Avhile looking gravely from under his beetling 
 eyebrows at one and then at the other, as though try 
 ing to puzzle out the real meaning of Avhat they said. 
 
 His attention was soon called to Dircks by Adams. 
 
 " Hello ! hello !" cried the artist " Avhat is the old 
 man up to IIOAV ?"
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOliliOW 99 
 
 In the doorway they saw the large figure of Dircks, 
 with his huge hand grasping the shoulder of a little 
 man, who was obviously very much frightened at the 
 violence and the unexpectedness of the attack. 
 
 " It s like that little Mr. Gillingham, isn t it ?" asked 
 Johnny. 
 
 "So it is," said the artist; "and the old man has 
 him under his paw, just like a big Newfoundland get 
 ting ready to shake the life out of a terrier." 
 
 " The dog that would be as scared as that fellow is," 
 Sartain declared, " would be only a mongrel cur." 
 
 " I wonder what the matter is," said Johnny. 
 
 Then Sartain recalled the threat he had heard Dircks 
 make after the debate, to tell Gillingham what he 
 thought of him. He stepped forward at once, not 
 knowing to what lengths the old man might intend to 
 proceed. The president of the club came up at the 
 same moment, on the opposite side, in time to see 
 Dircks release his hold on the smaller man s coat, and 
 to hear the little editor assert, angrily, that he had 
 never been so insulted in his life. 
 
 " That s all right," Dircks declared, looking down 
 at his victim. " You needn t look so scart. I m 
 through with you. I made up my mind I d tell 
 you what a liar you were, and I ve done it. That s 
 all. You can go now. I wouldn t have laid hands 
 on you at all, but you kept trying to inch out of the 
 room." 
 
 Dircks, having made this explanation, placidly left 
 Gillingham to recover from his fright, under the con 
 solations of the president. 
 
 " There Ava n t no need of his being so scart," ex 
 plained Dircks, calmly, to Sartain. " lie might have
 
 100 A CONFIDENT TO-MOBBOW 
 
 known I wa n t going to soil my hands on a little skunk 
 like him. Of course I could have wrung his neck., if 
 I d a mind to." 
 
 Not a third of the audience was now left in the re 
 ception - room, and the fact that there had been an 
 altercation of some sort was apparent to all, from the 
 shrill protests of Gillingham. 
 
 Esther came speeding towards her father, and Sar- 
 tain joyed in the grace of her movements. 
 
 "Father," she asked, gently, "what have you been 
 doing to him ?" 
 
 " I told you I d give him a piece of my mind," 
 he answered, gravely and wholly without excitement. 
 " Well, I got the chance and I ve done it. It s all over 
 now. lie s had his medicine, and he had to take it, 
 and there s an end. That s all there is to it." 
 
 Sartain saw that the girl was trembling. "There s 
 no occasion for alarm, Miss Dircks," he said; "your 
 father was very gentle with the man." 
 
 " Father does take so much interest in politics," she 
 said, "and he gets so excited sometimes that I never 
 know what he is going to do." 
 
 " He didn t hurt anybody this time," Sartain assured 
 her, glad to have the girl to himself again. " Gilling 
 ham needn t have been so frightened." 
 
 "It was very good of you to go over to them at 
 once," Esther said, looking in his eyes, "and I thank 
 you for it." 
 
 Sartain glowed with delight. 
 
 " Oh, that was nothing," he began, " absolutely 
 nothing. There was never any danger to anybody. 
 You alarmed yourself unnecessarily." 
 
 "Well, Esther," called Dircks, and when addressing
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKHOW 101 
 
 his daughter his voice was less gruff than at other 
 times,, " it s time for us to go, I guess." 
 
 "I m ready now, father," she answered. 
 
 Sartain could not be sure, but he thought that she 
 whispered a suggestion to her father, and he certainly 
 saw the old man s glance, seeking some one, resting 
 finally on him. 
 
 Then Johnny and Esther went off to the ladies 
 dressing-room for their wraps. In the hall there was a 
 stream of people pressing towards the door, the women 
 carefully hooded and the men with their overcoats on, 
 some of them having lighted their cigars in the cloak 
 room. 
 
 Sartain heard one very thin lady say to a friend as 
 she passed, "Very enjoyable evening, wasn t it?" 
 
 "Quite an intellectual treat, I call it," the other 
 woman answered. 
 
 Dircks laid his large hairy hand on Sartain s arm. 
 
 " Come and see us," he said, cordially. " Sunday 
 afternoon s the best time. My girl is always home 
 then. We live in Stuyvesant Square. It s quieter 
 down there." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Dircks," Sartain answered, his 
 heart leaping with joy. "I shall be delighted to call 
 next Sunday." 
 
 Only when he had bid them all good-night and was 
 walking down Fifth Avenue by himself did he dis 
 cover that, in his satisfaction at the invitation, he had 
 forgotten to inquire what was Mr. Dircks s address, 
 lie blamed himself for this severely, and wondered 
 why he always made a fool of himself, and asked him 
 self when he would ever have any common - sense. 
 The blunder was not irreparable he knew, as he had
 
 102 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 no doubt that "before Sunday he could find out from 
 the Vivians where it was that Esther lived. 
 
 And another thought came to console him before 
 he reached the door of the boarding-house in Irving 
 Place. It struck him suddenly that perhaps the in 
 vitation came from Esther herself that perhaps this 
 was what she had suggested to her father, and this was 
 why the old man had looked around for him.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 DURIXG the next two or three days Sartain went 
 over in his mind every incident of the memorable 
 evening at the Contemporary Club. He jotted down 
 his impressions for future literary use ; and he began 
 to plan how he could make them available in the new 
 novel of New York life which he intended to under 
 take soon. lie foresaw already that it would be pos 
 sible for the hero first to display himself to the pub 
 lic in a debate at the Contemporary Club, disclosing 
 great gifts of oratory and triumphantly annihilating 
 the shallow sophistries of the other speakers. Soon 
 it occurred to him that here was the best possible 
 opening chapter for the new novel, an opening chap 
 ter like the first act of a play, in which all the charac 
 ters are introduced and the theme is clearly presented. 
 There would be a chance to start the story with a 
 brilliant and broadly brushed picture, quite in the 
 Daudet manner, good in itself and better as a prepara 
 tion for what was to follow. Then the outline of the 
 tale began to suggest itself dimly to him. The young 
 orator would be an ardent reformer, coming from the 
 pure country to redeem the sordid city. Probably in 
 this narrative of the hero s efforts Sartain would be 
 able to describe all the attractive phases of life in New 
 York attractive from a literary point of view, he
 
 104 A CONFIDENT TO-MOHROW 
 
 meant. Perhaps the eloquent young countryman 
 would be rich at first, and he might lose his fortune 
 through the rascality of the heroine s father. If the 
 hero were to be desperately poor for a while, the 
 author could use a title he had long had in mind 
 A Wolf at the Door more enticing, it seemed to 
 him, even than Dust and Ashes. He intermitted the 
 plotting of the new tale long enough to visualize its 
 title on a pictorial poster with a realistic wolf waiting 
 hungrily at the snow-covered door-step. 
 
 As Sunday drew nigh he wondered how he was to 
 ascertain where Esther Dircks and her father lived. 
 The Vivians would be at home on Saturday afternoon, 
 he knew ; and he could, of course, call on them and 
 ask for the address. But his face burned red when 
 ever he recalled either the postal-card he had written 
 to accept the invitation or the rudeness with which he 
 had treated Johnny at the Contemporary. AVhenever 
 he dwelt on this he was ready to declare that New 
 York was too much for him too complicated, too 
 sophisticated and to resolve that he had best go back 
 at once to Topeka. 
 
 As he was getting ready to leave his office on Satur 
 day he saw the art-editor pass the door ; and then it 
 occurred to him that this gentleman, who had arranged 
 for all the illustrations required in the many publica 
 tions of Carington & Company, probably would know 
 the address of an engraver. 
 
 " Old Raphael Dircks ?" the art - editor answered, 
 when Sartain put the question to him. " He lives over 
 in Stuyvesant Square, somewhere. Let me see I ve 
 got his address here, I think. Yes, that s it I ll write 
 it on a card for you. It is an out-of-the-way part of
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 105 
 
 the town, on Second Avenue, you know. Sunday af 
 ternoons it s Lover s Lane ; it s a regular courting- 
 ground for the shop-girls and their beaus." 
 
 Sartain put the card in his pocket ; and that after 
 noon he went across to see where it was that Esther 
 lived. He found the house easily ; it was a spacious, 
 old-fashioned dwelling, on the northern side of the 
 square, beyond Second Avenue. Little as the young 
 man from the West knew about the rentals of houses 
 in New York, he did not believe it possible that Es 
 ther s father could afford to pay for the whole of a res 
 idence so ample. 
 
 As he walked past he saw that there were the mouths 
 of four speaking - trumpets in the vestibule, visible 
 through the open door, and he guessed then that this 
 meant the dwelling was now let in separate flats. He 
 would have liked to go up the stoop and to see what 
 floor the Dirckses had, that he could make sure which 
 windows Esther might look out of. But he did not 
 dare venture on this, feeling that it would be an intru 
 sion. 
 
 The next afternoon Sunday when Sartain mus 
 tered up his courage and set forth to avail himself of 
 Mr. Dircks s invitation to call, the appearance of Stuy- 
 vesant Square was not attractive, for the day was moist 
 and misty, and a drizzle of rain dripped from the few 
 bare trees. 
 
 Under each of the four speaking-tubes were a bell- 
 pull and a letter-box with the name of the owner upon 
 it. Sartain saw that the Dirckses lived on the third 
 floor. He pulled the bell and waited. A minute later 
 he heard a click as of the opening of a lock, and then a 
 remote and mysterious voice invited him to " Come up."
 
 106 A CONFIDENT TO-MOBBOW 
 
 Turning around, ho found that the door was now 
 ajar, and lie guessed that the click had been due to 
 the pulling of the bolt by some hidden wire from up 
 stairs. 
 
 He entered and closed the door behind him. At 
 four o clock on a rainy November afternoon the hall 
 was so dark that he had to grope his way. There 
 was a stale smell of cooking ; and as he went up the 
 second flight of stairs he heard the snapping notes of 
 a banjo. When he arrived at the third floor he hesi 
 tated, not knowing which door he ought to knock at. 
 Finally he made a choice, and rapped firmly. The low 
 voice of Esther Dircks bade him come in ; and there 
 upon he opened the door. 
 
 The room which he entered Avas fairly large, and it 
 had two windows looking out on the square. Esther 
 sat in a rocking-chair between the window and the fire 
 place, red with a hard-coal fire. She had a bundle of 
 bills on her lap, and a blank-book, in which she was 
 making figures. 
 
 "Sit down," she said, without raising her eyes from 
 her calculations. Father will be here in a few min 
 utes." 
 
 Sartain stood silently, surprised to be received so 
 unceremoniously. 
 
 Probably the constraint of his attitude attracted her 
 attention in some way, for she looked up. 
 
 "Oh !" she cried, in surprise. "Why, it s Mr. Sar 
 tain !" 
 
 It seemed to the young man that the color came 
 across the pale cheeks and went again at once. But 
 she had her back to the dim light, and he could not be 
 sure.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOltROW 107 
 
 "Didn t you expect me ?" he began. "I I mean 
 that I have availed myself at once of your kind invita 
 tion and and " 
 
 My kind invitation ?" she repeated. 
 
 " Your father s kind invitation, I mean/ he ex 
 plained. "He he asked me to call some Sunday 
 and and so I came to-day." 
 
 "I must have seemed very rude to you/ she said, 
 when he hesitated again. " But I thought you were 
 Mr. Adams." 
 
 " Did you ?" Sartain asked, with a swift pang of jeal 
 ousy that the artist should be on a more friendly foot 
 ing with her than he was. 
 
 "Do take off your overcoat," she said, "and you 
 can have that comfortable seat by the fire here. It is a 
 miserable day, isn t it ? Mr. Adams says that this 
 kind of weather must have been imported from Eng 
 land in the Mayflower." 
 
 "So you were expecting Adams this afternoon?" 
 was the question that Sartain asked, almost unwitting 
 ly, as he took the chair in front of her. 
 
 " We Avere not exactly expecting him/ the girl re 
 turned ; "at least, not this afternoon particularly. But 
 he often drops in on Sundays. Father likes to hear 
 him talk." 
 
 "And you do too ?" was Sartain s next question ; 
 and ho had no sooner uttered it than he was aware 
 that it was an impertinence. 
 
 " Oh yes, indeed," she responded, frankly. " I 
 think Mr. Adams is the most amusing man I know. 
 He is so unexpected in what he says ; don t you think 
 so?" 
 
 Sartain again regretted that he was not a ready talker,
 
 108 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 and that his conversation was not unexpected also. 
 Yet he thought that perhaps there was something re 
 assuring in the careless way Esther spoke of Adams ; 
 if she were in love with a man, surely she would not 
 call him amusing and unexpected; and he wondered 
 if she would speak of Vivian in the same tone. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "Adams is bright. But I 
 don t think his conversation has the charm of Mr. 
 Vivian s/ 
 
 "Perhaps not," she returned, "for it is always a 
 pleasure to hear Mr. Vivian talk. He makes every 
 thing so clear ; and he is so kind to me, too. He always 
 explains things to me ; and he is ever so patient. I am 
 just as ignorant as can be, you know, and he doesn t 
 seem to mind that at all." 
 
 From her manner Sartain could not guess whether 
 or not she had any suspicion that Vivian was in love 
 with her. For the first time Sartain recognized how 
 appalling is the inscrutability of woman. 
 
 "He is very kind, as you say," Sartain responded. 
 " Nobody knows that better than I for it is all owing 
 to him that I am here now." 
 
 She looked up at him with her illuminating smile. 
 
 " That s a compliment to me, isn t it ?" she asked, 
 gayly. " Do you want me to get up and courtesy to 
 you ?" 
 
 "Oh no," he replied, in confusion. "No what I 
 meant was that I shouldn t have met you if he had 
 not asked me into his parlor that afternoon when you 
 were posing as Cinderella." 
 
 "I think I saw what you meant," she returned. 
 "And I don t wonder at all that you are glad to go 
 to the Vivians . I am, too. I m always so delighted
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOIUIOW 109 
 
 to be with the girls, because they talk about people, 
 you know, while father is always talking about things. 
 Now, I think persons are ever so much more inter 
 esting than things. I just love to get with Theo and 
 Dora, and have a good gossip, and make fun of every 
 body we know." 
 
 " That must be delightful," said Sartain, ruefully, 
 aware that he was probably one of those whom the 
 twins had made fun of. The memory of that unlucky 
 postal-card blazed again in his cheeks. " I suppose 
 you were there yesterday afternoon ?" 
 
 " We were at the opera," she answered; "it was the 
 first matinee of Lohengrin, and father never misses 
 anything of Wagner, if AVC can help it." 
 
 That the rough -looking Dircks should go to the 
 opera struck Sartain as a strange incongruity, and 
 stranger still was the old man s preference for Wagner. 
 
 "I suppose that is one of the great advantages of 
 living in a big city like this," he said. "You have 
 the opera, not for a night or two, as we did sometimes 
 in Topeka, if we were lucky, but four or five times a 
 week, for four or five months at a stretch. Here you 
 don t have to wait till the opera comes around ; it is 
 here, and you can go as often as yon want." 
 
 "Indeed we can t," she returned, laughing. "I 
 wish we could, for father enjoys it so much, and I 
 am sure it does him good. But we can t afford it ! 
 When you knocked at the door just now, I was going 
 over our accounts to see how we were coming out this 
 month, for I know father will want to go next Satur 
 day. It s the Meistersinger, you know." 
 
 " No, I don t know," Sartain answered. " You must 
 remember I ve been three years in Topeka, and before
 
 110 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 that I was four winters in Providence ; and then I 
 wasn t rich enough to run on to Boston and go to the 
 opera more than once in a season. " 
 
 "It s a pity good opera is so dear, isn t it?" she 
 asked. "Or perhaps it would be better if only very 
 rich people really cared for expensive music." 
 
 " That is one of the problems to be solved in the 
 future how to prevent art from being the monopoly 
 of the plutocrat," he replied, finding phrases easily 
 now, since he had written many an article on the theme, 
 "and especially the theatre and the opera. Archi 
 tecture the man in the street can enjoy almost as 
 much as the man who built the house, and in time 
 mural decoration will be applied to all public build 
 ings, including the railroad stations, so that everybody 
 will have a chance to see good painting. But just how 
 to get good music and good acting for the man who 
 can t pay a dollar for a seat, I don t see yet. If the 
 State were to interfere, I m afraid the arrangement 
 of the repertory would be the result of pulls and of 
 inflooence. I think that one of the disadvantages 
 of limiting wealth will be discovered to be that we 
 shall then deprive ourselves of the public services some 
 rich men now render voluntarily to the community. 
 There s that man in Boston, you know, who supports 
 an orchestra, and the opera here in New York is paid 
 for out of the pockets of the multi-millionaires who 
 own the boxes." 
 
 "And they do talk so loud in their boxes," said 
 Esther ; " I don t believe they can really care for music 
 at all except, maybe, dance-music at their balls." 
 
 " Wasn t Cinderella rather fond of a dance herself ?" 
 he asked. " If I remember the tale, she had such a
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKKOW 111 
 
 good time at the ball that she outstayed the limits set 
 by the fairy godmother. Now if you had a fairy god 
 mother, you could go to the opera as often as you 
 chose." 
 
 " It would be nice, wouldn t it?" the girl returned, 
 smiling back at him. "But, you see, my fairy god 
 mother isn t here. She s way out West, and she s very 
 old, too, and I m afraid she is very feeble/ 
 
 " I didn t know you really had any such personage 
 attached to your train," he declared. 
 
 " It s my grandmother, I mean," Esther explained. 
 " She is almost eighty, and she lives out in Wisconsin 
 now, and she has been bedridden for nearly a year. 
 My mother died before I was ten, and she Avas an only 
 daughter, and so grandma was always very fond of me. 
 She is well off, too, and she is forever sending me 
 pretty things jewelry, sometimes, and dresses, and 
 sometimes money, so that I can get what I want most. 
 That s why I call her my fairy godmother. And she 
 is really my godmother too." 
 
 And then their talk turned naturally to the recol 
 lections of their youth. She told him where she had 
 spent her childhood, and he told her where he had 
 passed his. She described the loneliness that seized her 
 when her mother died suddenly, and he described his 
 more mature sensations when he lost his mother. He 
 was left all alone, and she had her father still, and her 
 father seemed to be very strong, so Sartain said. Then 
 she expressed her fear that her father was not really 
 robust ; and she explained how it was that he refused 
 to take proper care of himself. This gave her a chance 
 to set her father right in the young man s eyes by tell 
 ing Sartain that an outbreak like that at the Contem-
 
 112 A CONFIDENT TO-MORKOW 
 
 porary was very unusual, and that ho was rarely so 
 violent ; but he had brooded so much over the wrongs 
 of the poor that it made him mad when a man mis 
 represented them in the way Mr. Gillingham had done. 
 But ordinarily her father was gentle and quiet, and 
 nobody could be kinder. Sartain answered that Mr. 
 Dircks had a most benevolent aspect. She asserted 
 that her father had never given her a cross look, even 
 when she was a naughty little girl. Sartain refused 
 to believe that she had ever been a naughty girl. 
 Esther repeated her self -accusations, and protested 
 that she had been very naughty sometimes. This led 
 her to give him anecdotes of the pranks she and Dora 
 and Theo had played at the boarding-school where 
 they all were. Her grandmother had paid for her 
 schooling, and the happiest hours of her life had been 
 spent in the one large room that she and the twins 
 had occupied together. 
 
 Sartain said, " Oh, that s how it is you know Miss 
 Dora and Miss Theo so much better than you know 
 Miss Joan." 
 
 "I love Johnny dearly," Esther returned, "but of 
 course I don t know her half so well as I do Dora and 
 Theo. Johnny is very handsome, don t you think ?" 
 
 Sartain was not quick-witted and he was not sharp 
 to seize the subtleties of feminine character, but now 
 he suspected that he detected a different note in 
 Esther s voice. And yet the question was put as 
 though she really wanted his opinion. 
 
 "I don t know that I should call her handsome, 
 exactly," he answered. "But she is certainly fine 
 looking." 
 
 " You would think her handsomer, I m sure," she
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 113 
 
 returned, "if only she didn t dress in that foolish way. 
 It s absurd, isn t it, to see a girl as stout as she is wear 
 tight things as she does ?" 
 
 Sartain admitted that he did not like to see a woman 
 affect man s apparel. 
 
 " By-the-way," he continued, "speaking of Miss Joan 
 reminds me. The other evening at the Contemporary, 
 when I was talking to her, Mr. Adams was called away 
 and you were left alone do you remember ?" 
 
 " Oh yes," she answered. 
 
 "Well, then," he asked, "why didn t you get up 
 and join us join Miss Joan, I mean?" 
 
 " Oh, I couldn t," she replied. 
 
 "I don t see why not," said he. "We were both 
 looking at you and expecting you to come ; at least, I 
 was hoping you would." 
 
 "That s just it," she responded, "you were there." 
 
 "Didn t you want to speak to me?" he asked, in ag 
 grieved astonishment. 
 
 "You wouldn t understand if I told you why," she 
 declared. 
 
 " Try me," he said. 
 
 "Oh, it wouldn t do at all," she returned. "No 
 girl would have liked it. I know Johnny wouldn t." 
 
 "Wouldn t what ?" he asked. 
 
 "No girl would like another girl to join her when 
 she was talking to a man," she explained. "She 
 would think I wanted to get him away from her." 
 
 " Surely Miss Joan couldn t have so contemptible an 
 opinion of you as that !" he cried. 
 
 "Couldn t she?" Esther retorted. "You don t 
 know girls if you think so." 
 
 " No," he answered, gravely, wholly at a loss to un-
 
 114 A COXFIDEXT TO-MOIIROW 
 
 derstand so extraordinary a phenomenon. "No, if 
 girls are like that, I don t know girls. And I don t 
 think I want to know women capable of harboring 
 such mean thoughts." 
 
 " Oh, we are all alike !" Esther declared. 
 
 " I m sure you wouldn t be guilty of such a thing," 
 Sartain. asserted. 
 
 "You may be sure Johnny will never join you and 
 me if she sees us talking together some evening at the 
 Contemporary !" was Esther s rejoinder. 
 
 If questioned, Sartain would have confessed that 
 these subtleties of feminine psychology evaded him ; 
 they interested him also, and he felt sure that he 
 ought to study the matter out that it was his duty 
 as a novelist to master all the details of woman s char 
 acter. For the moment he held his peace, content to 
 be with this one woman whom he loved and to gaze at 
 her. The little wisp of golden hair came down again, 
 and he took the same pleasure in the pettish gesture 
 with which she thrust it back. 
 
 The brief twilight of NCAV York was upon them, 
 and the room was beginning to darken. The silence 
 lasted so long that Sartain did not know how to 
 break it. Then he heard a heavy footfall somewhere 
 behind him and a door opened. 
 
 " There s father now," cried Esther ; " and it s get 
 ting so dark here !" 
 
 As Mr. Dircks entered the room his daughter struck 
 a match and lighted the two gas-jets over a table be 
 tween the windows. 
 
 "Father, here s Mr. Sartain," she said. 
 
 Sartain rose to his feet and faced around to greet 
 Mr. Dircks.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOUUOW 115 
 
 "So you inquired us out ?" said the old man, whose 
 tall frame seemed to Sartain larger than ever in this 
 small room. "We re glad to see you/ and he held 
 out his huge hand and gave his visitor a hearty grasp. 
 
 The room was scantily furnished although it could 
 scarcely be called bare. Besides the rocking-chair 
 Esther had occupied and the chair Sartain had taken, 
 there was also a cane settle against the wall opposite 
 the fireplace ; and here Dircks sat down. 
 
 He had a newspaper in his left hand, the forty-eight- 
 page Sunday issue of the Daily Dial ; and now he raised 
 this up and said to his daughter, "I found a piece in 
 the paper here I d like you to read to me, Esther." 
 
 "You don t want me to read it aloud, do you, 
 father ?" the girl asked, as she took the newspaper 
 from him, glancing a little doubtfully at Sartain. 
 
 "Why not?" her father answered. "You ll read 
 it beautifully. Mr. Sartain will be glad to hear you." 
 
 " Indeed I shall !" cried the young man. 
 
 " Oh, very well," she responded, "since you wish it, 
 father." She looked at the place Mr. Dircks had 
 indicated. "Why, it s poetry!" she declared. 
 
 "And better than most at least, so it seemed to 
 me," her father returned. "Generally I don t read the 
 stuff, but that piece somehow is different. You read 
 it, and you ll see there s sense to it." 
 
 Without further demur, although not without an 
 other deprecatory glance at Sartain, she began to read 
 a couple of stanzas quoted in the middle of a book 
 review. She read simply and with intelligence. Her 
 voice was low and musical ; and it seemed to Sartain 
 that her modulations were exquisite. This is what 
 her father had given her to read :
 
 11G A CONFIDENT TO-MORKOW 
 
 ALTRUISM 
 
 A tale of toil that never is done, I tell ; 
 
 Of life where love s a fleeting wing 
 Across the toiler s murky hell 
 
 Of endless, cheerless journeying ; 
 I draw to thee the far-off poor 
 And lay their sorrows at thy door. 
 
 Thou shalt not rest while these thy kind 
 
 Toil hopelessly in solitude ; 
 Thou shalt not leave them out of mind 
 
 They must be reckoned with. The food 
 You eat shall bitter be 
 While law robs them and feedeth thee. 
 
 " That s true I" said Dircks. " While law robs 
 them ! There s lots of men being robbed by the law 
 every day. Cut that out for me, Esther ; I ll keep it." 
 
 Sartain had recognized the lines, and he was going 
 to tell Dircks who their author was, when Esther rose 
 and took a pair of scissors from the mantel - piece. 
 His mind was called off to record again the grace of 
 all her movements, which he involuntarily likened to 
 those of a humming-bird. 
 
 Then Dircks broke out once more, ""While law 
 robs them ! That s it. I can t say these things myself. 
 I feel them, but I can t think them out. And so when 
 I see a piece in the paper that says what I ve been 
 feeling, I cut it out and keep it." 
 
 "I suppose the law does rob some men," said Sar 
 tain; "but then we shall get the laws to our liking 
 some day. Perhaps the income-tax Avill come first; 
 they ve got it in England, you know, and in Switzer 
 land. Then there will be a succession-tax, properly
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKBOW 117 
 
 graduated to fall most heavily on the very wealthy. 
 Maybe that will prepare the way for a limitation of 
 the right of bequest ; but that s in the future/ 
 
 Mr. Dircks heard him eagerly. Evidently it was 
 with deep joy that the old man listened to any attack 
 on the existing order. Apparently also he was not 
 moved by any theory of improvement, but rather by 
 resentment against society as it was constituted. 
 Sartain wondered almost whether Dircks s ardor for 
 reform was not wholly personal, whether it was not 
 the result of some injustice he himself had suffered. 
 
 "All these laws you want are good, of course at 
 least, I suppose so," Dircks declared, with a beetling 
 of his brows. "But maybe the people who are being 
 crushed down now won t wait for all of them ; may 
 be they will take the law in their own hands some 
 day." 
 
 With an appealing gesture to Sartain, Esther now 
 sought to turn the talk. 
 
 " You mustn t be so violent, father," she inter 
 vened. " I should think you had had enough of fight 
 ing in the war." 
 
 Sartain was glad to come to her assistance promptly. 
 
 " So you were a soldier, Mr. Dircks ?" he asked. 
 
 " Father won t talk about it," the girl continued, 
 "but he served all through the war and he has a 
 bullet wound in his arm now." 
 
 " That s all over now," the old man declared " that s 
 all over. And what s a bullet in the arm, after all ?" 
 
 "Father doesn t wear a little bronze button like the 
 rest of the old soldiers, and he never parades with the 
 old Hags on Memorial Day," said Esther. " But I m very 
 proud of him all the same, if he isn t at all proud of
 
 118 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 himself." Then she went to her father and petted 
 him. 
 
 " My father served in a Rhode Island battery," 
 Sartain was glad to be able to say. " And in the war 
 of 1812 my grandfather was on the Constitution when 
 she took the Guerriere." 
 
 "It isn t nice of me to boast against you," she re 
 turned, flashing her smile at him, " but father s grand 
 father fought at Lexington." 
 
 " Both of my grandfathers were in the Revolution 
 ary War," Dircks interrupted. 
 
 " But I wasn t going to say anything about the 
 other one," his daughter admitted, laughingly. 
 
 " One was on one side and one was on the other," 
 the old man continued. "My mother s father was at 
 Lexington and afterwards he served in the old Conti 
 nentals. My father s father was a Hessian." 
 
 "I never tell anybody that!" Esther asserted; 
 " never ! But at school, in our history lessons, I always 
 let out about the one at Lexington." 
 
 " lie was a Hessian !" Dircks went on ; " bought 
 and sold like a dog ! He was leased by his master to 
 another man to fight for the other man, and if he 
 didn t choose to fight he was licked." 
 
 " And I suppose he remained here after the peace, 
 as so many of the Germans did ?" suggested Sartain. 
 "And that s how you come to be a New Englander 
 with so foreign a name as Dircks and yet that sounds 
 rather Dutch than German, I think." 
 
 "And my name is Hebrew," said Esther; "and so 
 is father s given name, Raphael." 
 
 This gave Sartain a chance to explain that his own 
 family name was probably French, and that it was de-
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOHROW 119 
 
 rived from a Huguenot ancestor expelled from France 
 on the revocation of the Edict of Xantes more than 
 t\vo centuries ago. 
 
 The shades had not been drawn down when the gas 
 was lighted ; and now Sartain, happening to look out,, 
 saw that it was already dark. He rose hastily and 
 apologized for having made so long a call. 
 
 " Not at all/ said Dircks, heartily. " Don t hurry." 
 
 When Sartain insisted, the old man added, "If you 
 must go, come again. I like to talk to you, and I like 
 to hear you talk/ 
 
 The young man thanked him for the invitation and 
 shook hands. Then he turned to the daughter. 
 
 "We are always at home on Sunday afternoons," 
 she said, cordially. 
 
 "I shall come often if I may," Sartain responded. 
 
 " I hope you will," she assented. Then she added : 
 "It is always good for father to have a chat with 
 son 10 one who can talk about the things he is inter 
 ested in."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 IN the next few days Sartain recalled his talk with 
 Esther very often. The glimpse of her childhood that 
 she had given him was precious to him, and he was glad 
 that he had been able also to tell her about his mother 
 and about his own youth. He thought that he knew 
 her a great deal better for that long exchange of confi 
 dences, and he hoped that she knew him better also. 
 
 On Saturday he had a brisk little note from Mr. Viv 
 ian, inviting him to eat his Thanksgiving turkey with 
 them on the coming Thursday at half-past seven, and 
 explaining that it would be a very little dinner, as 
 Dircks and his daughter and Adams would be the only 
 other guests. It was not on a postal-card that Sartain 
 accepted this invitation, but on a sheet of Japanese 
 vellum note-paper, which he had recently purchased 
 at one of the Oriental stores. 
 
 Vivian s note he put away with its predecessor, first 
 reading the two over again, and remarking on the care 
 with Avhich they were written. Both in expression and 
 in penmanship they were models of neatness. The 
 appearance of these little letters was like that of the 
 man himself it was the very perfection of conscien 
 tious finish. 
 
 Then it came to Sartain, strongly, that here was a 
 most dangerous rival, if Vivian were really resolved
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKHOW 121 
 
 upon marrying Esther. The novelist was no longer a 
 young man, it was true,, but he was good-looking still, 
 Avcll - dressed always, and well - preserved, far more 
 youthful in appearance than his actual years. When 
 Sartain set himself beside Vivian he was acutely aware 
 of his own disadvantages. Some day he hoped to show 
 the world what was in him, but in the meanwhile he 
 was a raw boy without fame or position or means. 
 Mr. Vivian had all these ; he was also an accomplished 
 man of the Avorld ; he was not cursed with shyness ; 
 and he had tact. Sartain s heart sank within him as 
 he set down the list of Vivian s superiorities, and yet 
 he took courage again at the thought that after all 
 Vivian was older, and had been married already, and 
 could not love Esther as much as a young man who 
 had all the career of his manhood still before him. 
 Perhaps, after all, Adams was really more to be feared 
 than Vivian. 
 
 And yet, when Sartain was shown into the Vivians 
 parlor on Thanksgiving evening, and the host came 
 forward to greet him, the young man could not but 
 hold the elder to be a formidable competitor. Jeal 
 ousy lent sharpness to Sartain s examination of Vivian 
 as he acknowledged his host s cordial greeting, and 
 it was with a satisfaction he knew to be despicable 
 that he marked how much grayer Vivian s beard was 
 than he had taken it to be. But the keen face had a 
 kindly expression, and the alert eye gave the new-comer 
 a welcoming glance. 
 
 "You have met all my daughters, haven t you?" 
 said Mr. Vivian ; and Sartain replied that he had had 
 that pleasure, stiffening himself not to be overwhelmed 
 by the memory of the unfortunate postal-card which
 
 122 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 the twins knew all about, and by the recollection of 
 his more flagrant rudeness to the elder daughter at 
 the meeting of the Contemporary Club. 
 
 He had bowed to the twins, making some inarticu 
 late remark, and they severally responded, " So glad 
 you were able to come, Mr. Sartain," and " Delighted 
 to meet you again, Mr. Sartain." Then they resumed 
 their own confab, interrupted by his arrival ; and in 
 half a minute they were again giggling away a little 
 to the young man s discomfort, for he feared that per 
 haps he was the target of their merriment. 
 
 lie turned to Johnny, and to his great relief she 
 greeted him with her usual heartiness, and set him at 
 his ease at once. It was as though she had wholly 
 forgotten how rudely he had neglected her the last 
 time they had met. As he dropped into conversation 
 with her, he looked at her with genuine admiration. 
 In evening -dress she was really almost a handsome 
 woman ; her robust figure was only a little too full for 
 her height. Her attire was even less mannish than it 
 had been at the Contemporary. For one thing, her 
 sleeve was short and displayed a beautiful forearm, 
 which led Sartain to look at her hand for the first 
 time ; and he discovered that it, too, was beautiful a 
 little large, perhaps, and strong rather than delicate, but 
 finely modelled and admirably proportioned. Sartain 
 was as susceptible as most young men to the influence 
 of sex and to the power of beauty ; and yet his feeling 
 towards Johnny was that, after all, she was a good fel 
 low, and that it would be pleasant to be friends with her. 
 
 Before they had settled down into talk, Vivian got 
 up again to shake hands with Adams, who nodded to 
 Sartain, and was instantly seized by the twins.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOHKO\V 123 
 
 "As we arc nil here now," said Vivian, "I suppose 
 we may as well have dinner served/ He went to the 
 door and gave an order to the white-capped maid. 
 
 Sartain stared at Johnny in surprise. "All here !" 
 he echoed, blankly. "Why, I I thought that Miss 
 Es that Mr. Dircks and his daughter were coming 
 too ?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered, " we expected them ; and we 
 are all so disappointed they can t come." 
 
 " Can t come !" Sartain echoed again, his spirits 
 sinking swiftly. 
 
 "They accepted at first," Johnny explained, "but 
 yesterday morning Dora had a letter from Esther say 
 ing she had just had a letter from Madison, Wiscon 
 sin, with news of her grandmother s illness. The old 
 lady is very feeble and probably she will not survive 
 this attack. She was very fond of Esther I ve an 
 idea she was her favorite grandchild, and so she begged 
 her to come out and see her before she died. Of 
 course, Esther and her father packed up at once, and 
 they must be in Madison by this time. I only hope 
 that she will find her grandmother alive but it won t 
 be a cheerful Thanksgiving for her anyway, will it ?" 
 
 "No," said he, slowly, "it will not be cheerful for 
 her," and he thought how cheerless his own Thanks 
 giving dinner would be now that he was disappointed 
 in her presence. 
 
 The mood of taciturnity to which he was often a 
 prey seized him again, and the conversation would 
 have flagged more than once if Johnny had not chatted 
 along. 
 
 As they rose to pass into the dining-room, Vivian 
 said to Sartain, "Will you take my daughter in ?"
 
 124 A CONFIDENT TO-MOUHOW 
 
 Tlien he turned to Adams and the twins and asked, 
 " Which of you goes in with me ?" 
 
 " You can go in by your lonesome, papa," returned 
 Dorothea. 
 
 " We cannot desert Madams," added Theodora. 
 
 With that the twins each took one of the artist s 
 arms, and sent their father on before them by himself. 
 Johnny and Sartain brought up the rear. 
 
 It was the first time that Sartain had ever been in 
 vited to a dinner so elegantly served. In spite of his 
 sharp pang of disappointment that Esther Dircks was 
 not to sit at the table with him he was awake to all 
 the details of the service. The table was square, and 
 it was lighted only by three candles in the candelabra 
 at each corner. There was a superb basket of flowers 
 in the centre, and here and there were little silver 
 dishes with olives, nuts, candied fruit, and tiny frosted 
 cakes. 
 
 Johnny took the seat at the head of the table and 
 indicated to Sartain the chair on her right. Mr. Vivian 
 stood at the foot, while Adams hesitated. 
 
 "Your place is on Johnny s left there," said the 
 host. "I forget how you two little pests are to sit," 
 he added, glancing from one to the other of the twins. 
 
 Dora and Theo looked at the two unoccupied places, 
 one next to Adams and the other next to Sartain, 
 and then they looked at each other and laughed. 
 
 "Let s draw lots," cried one of them. 
 
 "I ll go you!" returned the other, leaning over 
 and picking out a couple of salted nuts. Placing her 
 hands behind her for a moment, she extended her 
 closed fists to her sister. "Now choose," she said. 
 "If you get the chestnut, you sit next to Madams."
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 125 
 
 It was Theo who presented this dilemma to her 
 sister, and while Dora was making her choice it struck 
 Sartain that neither of the twins at all relished his 
 society, and that he was obviously assigned to Johnny s 
 care ; and with a swift blush he asked himself if she 
 were entertaining him merely as one of the disagreeable 
 duties of the hostess. The question was salutary at 
 that minute, for it gave him an incentive to put his 
 best foot forward, and to show them that he was quite 
 as good company as Adams. 
 
 Finally Dora chose the right hand the chestnut 
 was in the left; so it was Theo who sat between her 
 father and the artist, and Dora who took the chair 
 beside Sartain. 
 
 As they were unfolding their napkins, Johnny had 
 a chance to call Adams s attention to the eternal fit 
 ness of things, in that the one of the twins who got 
 the chestnut was to have him, to which the artist re 
 plied that if he were really a chestnut he had come 
 that evening to be stuffed with turkey. 
 
 Sartain, left out of this interchange of obvious jest, 
 ate his oysters in silence, and then forced himself to 
 speak to the girl on his right. 
 
 " This little dinner of six is very like the one your 
 father has described in the first chapter of In Search 
 of Himself," he began. " Don t you think so ?" 
 
 Theodora answered promptly, " I don t know," and 
 looked across the table at Dorothea. 
 
 "And I don t know either," the other girl added. 
 " You see, we have neither of us ever read any of papa s 
 books." 
 
 Sartain stared from one to the other in intense sur 
 prise. " Never read your father s books ?" he repeated.
 
 12G A CONFIDENT TO-MOKKOW 
 
 " The fact is, AVG like papa too much to read what he 
 writes," said Tlieo. 
 
 " And if we had read them and didn t happen to 
 like them, I don t know what we should do !" Dora 
 declared. 
 
 Sartain turned to Vivian, who nodded gravely and 
 agreed. " It is a fact. They never do read my books ; 
 yet they can read and write themselves after a fash 
 ion. I don t say that they can spell, but then I never 
 could myself until I began to correct proof. Besides, 
 what could I expect ? I sent them to a school which 
 professed to provide a collegiate education so I sup 
 pose I had no right to demand orthography." 
 
 " It s a mistake to teach girls how to read and write," 
 broke in Adams. It unfits them for society, where 
 ignorance is bliss and where that girl is most attractive 
 who is most willing to ask questions and to let men 
 tell her things." 
 
 " I didn t go to the same school as Theoand Dora," 
 said Johnny. "At my school we had a debating 
 society, and the last question we discussed before I 
 was graduated was Does a college education unfit a 
 man for matrimony ? : 
 
 Adams laughed. " I think that was a fair thrust," 
 he admitted. " All the same, I believe that the one 
 insult no woman will ever forgive is an attempt to 
 reason with her." 
 
 Johnny looked at him gravely and there came a 
 little twinkle in her eye as she answered. " You ought 
 to rejoice, Madams, that you are in no danger of ever 
 proffering such an insult." 
 
 Sartain listened in silence, observing that Vivian 
 liked to lead Adams on, and that he enjoyed the
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORHOW 127 
 
 crackle of jesting, although he rarely took part in it 
 himself. After the artist had been setting forth certain 
 extreme views at great length and with much corus 
 cation of paradox, all the comment the host made was 
 to say, slyly, " What a pity it is that Adams lacks the 
 gift of dialogue." 
 
 So long as Esther Dircks Avas not present, Sartain 
 did not mind how successfully Adams might show off ; 
 and her absence was in his thoughts whenever he let 
 his mind wander from the immediate topic of the con 
 versation. He had no need to exert himself to keep 
 up the talk. Johnny and Mr. Vivian brought him in 
 now and then just sufficiently to keep him from feel 
 ing left out. He was aware that they both had tact, 
 and that they were using it in their relations with 
 him ; and although he was grateful for this, it an 
 noyed him none the less. He wished more fervently 
 than ever that Esther was there, since she was truly 
 sympathetic. In her presence he expanded freely, and 
 she had no need of tact. 
 
 A green-turtle soup had followed the oysters ; and 
 a pompano succeeded the soup. Then came broiled 
 mushrooms, after which there were cutlets, cooked in 
 a shell of paste with a delicious Avhite sauce. 
 
 " Gracious, papa/ cried Theo, " I ve given up drink 
 ing water with my meals, and I eat toast now and no 
 bread, but how can we help getting fatter and fatter 
 if Johnny Avill have cotelettes d la Soubise?" 
 
 "These cutlets are fine !" said the artist. "Have 
 you a new Chief now, or a Blue String only ?" 
 
 "I don t know that we can even call her a Cordon 
 Bleu," Vivian explained. " She is a Swede, but Johnny 
 tries to keep her up to the mark. And as a result I m
 
 128 A CONFIDENT TO-MOUHOW 
 
 afraid I shall have to go over to Carlsbad again this 
 summer." 
 
 "Then we must start early and get to London be 
 fore the season s over/ Dora insisted. 
 
 "And after your cure we can go to the Engadine 
 again, can t we ?" asked Theo. "I dote on Saint Mo- 
 ritz in August." 
 
 "There is the disadvantage of going to Europe," 
 expounded Vivian, knitting Sartain. into the conver 
 sation ; " these flibbertigibbets of mine keep me jump 
 ing from Zeca to Mecca, as the Spaniards say. And 
 I am getting too old to be trotted up and down the 
 globe. I like to spend my summers tranquilly." 
 
 Sartain was able here to frame a sentence express 
 ing his belief that Mr. Vivian was very fortunate in his 
 travelling companions. 
 
 "There, Madams !" said Johnny. "You never pay 
 us compliments like that." 
 
 " The fact is," said Adams, gravely, " a man must 
 make his choice between Truth and Tact. He can t 
 pretend to both. Now I have preferred Truth !" 
 
 The service was so silent and so swift that the guests 
 never gave it a thought ; and it was this simplicity of 
 luxury that most impressed Sartain. He did not doubt 
 that the silver and the glass and the linen were all ex 
 pensive, but he had to admit that they were perfectly 
 unpretentious. Everything was excellent in its kind, 
 and nothing was showy enough to attract attention. 
 As the turkey had followed the cutlets, and as it had 
 been succeeded by a ham and a mayonnaise of celery 
 and lettuce, Sartain felt that here was the quiet per 
 fection of living. Wealth had its advantages, if it 
 could lubricate the wheels of existence thus. The
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 129 
 
 young fellow had often longed for riches that he might 
 do good with them ; now, almost for the first time, he 
 wished for wealth for his own sake, that he might 
 have rooms comfortably furnished and meals artisti 
 cally served. He projected his vision into the future, 
 and imagined himself and Esther sitting at a table 
 like this in an apartment like that. Then he remem 
 bered that it was Thanksgiving Day, and that in many 
 a tenement-house of New York there were old men, 
 worn women, and little children who had gone without 
 food. The morsel in his own mouth choked him al 
 most ; and he felt for the moment as though the boun 
 tiful repast at which he sat had been stolen from the 
 hungry. 
 
 After the salad there was a mince-pie ; and that gave 
 place to a mould of fancy ice-cream, representing a 
 hen setting upon a nest of spun sugar. The talk of 
 the twins, Johnny, and Adams sparkled along, but Sar- 
 tain could not cast off the sombre shadow that had 
 fallen over him. He was well aware that his taciturn 
 ity was out of place, but he could scarcely control it. 
 During the last course he hardly spoke at all. 
 
 Finally Johnny rose, and the rest of them stood 
 up also. Sartain saw Adams offer his arm to Theo 
 while Dora took her father s, so he presented his to 
 Johnny. 
 
 The men escorted the girls to the parlor, and then 
 returned to the dining-room, whereupon Vivian in 
 vited Adams and Sartain to take the chairs next to 
 him. The maid passed the coffee and the liqueurs. 
 
 For a minute or two nothing was said ; and then 
 Sartain broke the silence, finding it easier to master 
 his melancholy when there were no women present.
 
 130 A COXFIDEXT TO-MORROW 
 
 "Do you suppose that Miss Dircks s grandmother 
 is likely to die soon ?" he asked. 
 
 "She is not likely to get well, I think/ Vivian 
 answered. 
 
 " Pretty well fixed, the old lady is, isn t she ?" Adams 
 queried. 
 
 " I have an impression that she has some money," the 
 host responded. " How much there may be I cannot 
 say. I hope that Esther will come in for a share of it." 
 
 " I guess even a little would be welcome in Stuyve- 
 sant Square," said the artist. " It s going to be a 
 pretty cold winter for the engravers. Process is 
 knocking them out, one after another. I don t won 
 der the old man has soured on the world. It s enough 
 to make a saint swear, to work hard, to be one of the 
 best men in the business, and then have the business 
 go from under you, as his has done." 
 
 " Mr. Dircks is one of the finest engravers we have, 
 isn t he ?" asked Sartain ; "one of the leaders of the 
 American school ?" 
 
 " His touch is exquisite," Adams asserted " simply 
 exquisite ; and the more feeling there is in a drawing 
 the better he does it. You wouldn t think that now, 
 from the look of him, would you ? He s a funny old 
 bird, with that long white beard of his and those im 
 mense eyebrows. You d never imagine he was daft 
 about Wagner s operas either. He looks more like a 
 benevolent revivalist who would lead in singing the 
 Sweet By -and -By or else like a bunco-steerer, I 
 don t know which." 
 
 " There is a marked contrast between his almost 
 uncouth appearance," Vivian admitted, " and the deli 
 cacy of his artistic perceptions."
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 131 
 
 Suddenly it struck Sartain that it was odd he and 
 Adams and Vivian should be dissecting Raphael Dircks 
 thus coldly, when all three of them were in love with 
 the old man s daughter. 
 
 " Did you know that Mr. Dircks had been in the 
 army ?" he inquired, desiring to divert the discussion. 
 
 " He was in the artillery/ Vivian explained. "Curi 
 ously enough, he was in command of the very battery 
 at Gettysburg I was ordered to support." 
 
 Sartain looked at Vivian in surprise. Here was the 
 first time he had heard that his host had seen service 
 in the war. 
 
 " We got fighting our battles over one day last win 
 ter/ Vivian went on, "and I found that we had spent 
 a good part of that very hot Fourth of July side by 
 side. But I discovered also that there is something 
 about his war record that he hates to recall. Have 
 you remarked how he detests those in power and how 
 he sympathizes with those in danger, whether they 
 are really guilty or not ? Well, sometimes I have 
 surmised that perhaps he got into a mess of some 
 sort ; he is perfectly honest, of course, but he is as in 
 nocent as a babe, and he has a violent temper. Now 
 he may have been unjustly accused and unable to clear 
 himself ; and that might imbitter him." 
 
 "You do not suppose that his daughter knows 
 this ?" Sartain asked, with the picture of Esther be 
 fore him as she waited on her father that drizzling 
 afternoon ten days before in Stuyvesant Square. 
 
 "I don t know it myself. I don t believe that 
 there is anything really wrong with Dircks," Vivian 
 returned; "but whatever it may be, his daughter 
 doesn t suspect it."
 
 132 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 " Of course, if the old man was cashiered or fired 
 out of the army one way or another/ said Adams, 
 "it s no wonder he s got his mad up." 
 
 "I like the old man in spite of his peculiarities 
 or perhaps because of them, I don t know which," 
 Vivian declared, "but I cannot pretend to understand 
 him. He is a congeries of contradictions. That s 
 what makes him so individual. But theH, if we have 
 eyes to see it, everybody is individual." 
 
 "I guess he s what you call a character, if that s 
 what you mean," the artist admitted. 
 
 Sartain smiled and suggested that he himself had 
 fancied Dircks would be "copy." 
 
 "Oh yes," Vivian returned, with a bitter sigh, "he 
 is copy, of course, and so are you, and so am I. 
 That is the worst of our craft everything is copy. 
 Nothing is sacred to a man of letters nowadays ; he 
 stands ready to find literary material in his own wed 
 ding-day, or in his mother s death-bed. If we meet a 
 beautiful woman, we are thinking how we can put her 
 into words. If we make love to her, we do it with one fin 
 ger on our own pulse, so that we can reproduce the effect 
 in the next love-scene we compose. Sometimes I have 
 wanted to liken a novelist s head to a kodak, in which he 
 is incessantly storing away negatives to be developed at 
 leisure. After a man has written a dozen novels he is 
 incapable of anything but self-analysis. He is forever 
 prying into his own motives and emotions. He takes 
 his art with him everywhere ; he cannot get away from 
 it ; it is his Old Man of the Sea ; it is his Nemesis ; it 
 is the price he has to pay for the joy of creation." 
 
 Sartain confessed his own increasing tendency to 
 keep himself under the microscope.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 133 
 
 "It is a disgusting trick, is it not ?" asked Vivian, 
 in a gush of self -contempt. " I wish I could get back 
 the power of doing things simply and for their own 
 sake, and without the consciousness of the immense 
 complexity of my motives for the most trifling act." 
 
 "As you say," Sartain commented, "this treating 
 of all the sacred emotions merely as so much material 
 for our art that is the price we pay for the joy of 
 creation. It s a high price, no doubt but then is any 
 price too high for the immense delight the craftsman 
 feels as his work grows before him and he knows that 
 it is good ?" 
 
 "That s all very well," retorted the artist. "But 
 sometimes he knows it is good when it isn t when it s 
 mighty bad, indeed. It isn t the men who do the best 
 work that are most easily satisfied with what they do 
 not by a long shot, it isn t." 
 
 " Of course not," said the elder novelist, "and yet 
 Sartain here is right in thinking that the man who 
 does the best work gets the most enjoyment out of it. 
 And this, even though he knows that he is far from 
 attaining perfection. Don t you remember the anec 
 dote of Thorwaldsen in his old age ?" 
 
 " I don t care much for Thorwaldsen," the artist re 
 sponded. " He was a neo-Greek and that s a bastard 
 style. Every fellow ought to begin where the fellow 
 before him left off, and not go harking back after dead 
 men s bones." 
 
 " With your gracious permission," the host retorted, 
 laughing lightly, " I will tell you the anecdote as well 
 as I can recall it. In Thorwaldsen s old age a friend 
 entered his studio in Rome and found him seated de 
 spondently before the figure he had just finished mod-
 
 134 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKKOW 
 
 elling. The friend asked him why he was sorrowful, 
 and if it was because he had not been able to realize his 
 ideal. The old sculptor answered that, on the con 
 trary, he grieved because he had now, for the first time 
 in his life, been able to realize his ideal ; and he ex 
 plained that in his youth he could never satisfy him 
 self, and that he had always seen how imperfect even 
 his best works were. Now, at last, his craftsmanship 
 was equal to his conception ; soon the cunning hand 
 would surpass the failing brain, and therefore he per 
 ceived that he must be already on the verge of his 
 decline." 
 
 " The old boy knew a thing or two, didn t he ?" 
 cried the artist, admiringly. " I didn t think it of 
 him. I like the anecdote better than any of his other 
 works." 
 
 When the three men went back to the drawing-room 
 the twins crossed over to the piano. 
 
 "Now, Madams," cried Theo, "you must sing us 
 something." 
 
 The artist joined them. "Have you heard Queenie 
 Dougherty this year ?" he asked. 
 
 " "Who is Queenie Dougherty ?" inquired Dora. 
 
 " Who are you, if you don t know who she is ?" 
 Adams retorted. " Queenie Dougherty is the Irish 
 Empress. She is a great artist and a pretty big 
 woman too. She has a voice like the bulls of Bashan 
 but she is a singer from Sing Sing, and she gets all 
 there is out of a song, I can tell you. Here s her lat 
 est." With that the artist sat at the piano and sang 
 for them an ingenuously contrived lyric, the refrain of 
 which was, " But he hadn t the price in his clothes !" 
 
 When he had made an end, amid their laughing
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 135 
 
 applause, Vivian said, " You must ask Sartain to sing 
 you something. He used to be on the glee club, so 
 he told me, and he must know all the college songs." 
 
 So they got out the book and Sartain sang. He 
 had a mellow barytone, and he had profited by the 
 teaching he had received in the glee club. They were 
 surprised that he sang so well, and that his voice was 
 so fine. They begged him to give them something 
 else. He looked through a pile of music and he found 
 the " Bedouin Song." 
 
 " Could you play the accompaniment of this ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 Johnny took her seat at the piano and Sartain stood 
 behind her. The song suited his voice, and he knew 
 it, and that helped him to sing it well. But when he 
 came to the end 
 
 " Open the door of thy heart, 
 
 And open thy chamber door, 
 And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
 The love that shall fade no more, 
 
 " Till the Sun grows cold, 
 And tlie Stars are old, 
 And the leaves of tJie Judgment Book unfold!" 
 
 then he knew that never hitherto had he sung it so 
 well, for the face of Esther Dircks was before his eyes, 
 and it was his yearning for her he was giving voice to, 
 and his love that could never die. 
 
 Johnny did not look around when the song was over, 
 nor did she join in the compliments of the others. 
 She sat at the piano, with her back to him, saying 
 nothing ; but she softly played once and again the 
 final notes of the air.
 
 136 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKROW 
 
 Sartain was much pleased with the unexpected im 
 pression he had produced. He resolved to take his 
 leave at once before he spoiled it by another return of 
 his shyness. 
 
 " That s very nice, that little chansonette of yours," 
 said Adams. 
 
 " It was very well sung," Vivian declared, cordial 
 ly "with taste as well as feeling." 
 
 Then Sartain seized the opportunity, and said that 
 he was glad they liked it, and that he had enjoyed 
 himself very much, and that he must be going now. 
 He shook hands with them all, and Johnny swung 
 around on the piano-stool to say good-night. There 
 was a queer expression on her face, he fancied, but 
 he made no effort to guess what it was.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 Oisr the Saturday afternoon of the week after the 
 Thanksgiving dinner, Sartain went again to the tall 
 apartment-house facing Central Park. He wished to 
 pay his digestion-visit promptly, but he wanted also to 
 get the latest news from Esther Dircks. As it happened 
 that day, there were half a dozen other callers ; but he 
 accomplished his double purpose, for as he said good 
 bye to one of the twins he managed to learn that Mr. 
 Dircks had returned to New York, leaving his daugh 
 ter at Madison, where her grandmother still lingered. 
 He was told, also, that it might be several weeks before 
 Esther would be back, for, although the old lady could 
 not recover, she had an astonishing vitality. 
 
 He settled down to work on the new novel, and the 
 manuscript of A Wolf at the Door began to expand 
 rapidly. He wrote in his own little room for two or 
 three hours every evening, and sometimes until after 
 midnight ; then, before going to bed, he went out for 
 half an hour s brisk walk. The story opened before 
 him most promisingly. The earlier chapters were de 
 voted to the hero s brilliant oration at a club, which 
 Sartain called the "Cosmos." Then came a supper 
 at a fashionable lady s house after a theatre-party 
 and in the description of this repast he utilized cer 
 tain of his impressions of the Thanksgiving dinner at
 
 138 A CONFIDENT TO-MORKOW 
 
 Vivian s. This late supper was intended to contrast 
 picturesquely with a mid-day Sunday dinner in a cheap 
 boarding-house such a contrast as Balzac was wont 
 to present so adroitly. The heroine was to be an ideal 
 ized portrait of Esther ; and he was quite willing that 
 she should see herself in his pages some day and know 
 that it was thus he saw her. 
 
 One afternoon, a few days before Christmas, he re 
 ceived a note from Adams, asking him if he were free 
 to dine that evening. "No boiled shirt needed ; come 
 in your overalls," said a postscript. " Go as you 
 please is my motto." 
 
 Sartain dashed off a line of acceptance. Generally 
 he Avas slow in granting his friendship, and always he 
 expected others to make the necessary advance to him. 
 With Adams, however, he was ready to go half way 
 towards an intimacy. Beneath the bravura manner of 
 the artist, and under his bravado tone, and behind all 
 his talking for effect, Sartain had detected the true 
 man. He held that Adams had genuine simplicity and 
 natural kindliness qualities he greatly appreciated. 
 He thought that the painter liked him, and he was 
 still uncertain whether Vivian really did, or whether 
 the elder novelist had not merely accepted him as one 
 of a class, to all the members of which Vivian made a 
 habit of being unfailingly courteous and considerate. 
 
 This doubt was lingering in his mind when Adams 
 came for him that evening, a little before seven ; and 
 perhaps it lurked unformulated in some remarks to 
 the artist in which he praised Vivian s good manners. 
 
 " Good manners ?" Adams echoed. " You had better 
 believe they are good. I used to think they were too 
 good to be true."
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 139 
 
 " And you don t think so now ?" asked Sartain. 
 
 " Now I know they are," the painter responded. 
 " But they are not for external use only. Vivian 
 makes a habit of attaching to him by bonds of grati 
 tude for favors received all the rising young men of 
 letters in the country. They tell me that he writes 
 one of his clever little notes to every man who reviews 
 one of his books and if the fellow who did the notice 
 is young, he takes it as a great compliment to himself 
 and as a proof that his critical faculty is singularly 
 acute." 
 
 " That seems to me to be well self-seeking," com 
 mented Sartain, "and quite unworthy of a man of 
 Vivian s high rank as an author." 
 
 "No," Adams answered, "it isn t, really, for he s per 
 fectly sincere always. He never says what he doesn t 
 think. He praises these young fellows and lends them 
 a leg up because he is really kindly. I ve known him 
 to take lots of trouble for a man who was dying and 
 I found that out only by accident. No, he likes to 
 scatter benefits ; it is perfectly natural for him to do 
 a good turn to everybody. But I guess he knows that 
 the exercise of these generous inclinations of his helps 
 to keep him solid with the boys." 
 
 Sartain then ventured to express his own doubt as 
 to whether he himself in Vivian s eyes was an indi 
 vidual or only a type. 
 
 "Oh, he likes you too," explained the artist. "I ve 
 heard him say so and you can always rely on what he 
 says. lie thinks you are a curious specimen of an 
 Easterner with a Western veneer, that s true ; but he 
 also loves you for yourself alone. At bottom, Vivian 
 is a white man as white as they make em, too. And
 
 140 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 I guess he doesn t have any too good a time with those 
 three red-headed daughters of his." 
 
 " Why, I thought they were the happiest family I 
 had ever met !" cried Sartain. 
 
 "Well, there s always a cat and a dog in every 
 Happy Family I ve ever seen at the circus," Adams 
 retorted. " And I guess they have cat-and-dog times 
 at the Vivians now and then. Those twins haven t 
 got red hair for nothing, you know." 
 
 Sartain expressed his great surprise at this suggest 
 ion, as the girls had always seemed to him hearty and 
 full of fun. 
 
 "Those are their company manners only," Adams 
 returned. " They get quite morbid sometimes ; and 
 it s then they have their scraps. There s nothing like 
 a real monkey-and-parrot row to clear the air and re 
 store the moral tone." 
 
 " Is Miss Joan morbid also ?" Sartain asked. 
 
 " Johnny s the best of them," the artist answered. 
 " She s her father s daughter, she is. She s got a lot 
 of the manly virtues, that girl. For one thing, she 
 can be a stanch friend. She s the sort of woman a 
 fellow could go to for comfort if he were in trouble. 
 She is naturally very kindly, too. You know my defi 
 nition of true politeness ?" 
 
 Sartain had to admit that he did not know this. 
 
 "I call it mine," continued Adams, "but of course 
 you will discover that it is really a plagiarism true 
 politeness is the outward and visible sign of an inward 
 and spiritual grace. Now that s the kind of polite 
 ness Johnny has in spite of all her masculine bad 
 manners. She s a good fellow. And she knows how 
 to house-keep, doesn t she ? That was a flue dinner
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 141 
 
 we had on Thanksgiving a good deal better than the 
 dinner you re going to have to-night, I can tell you." 
 
 They had walked to Broadway in the beginning of 
 the first snow-storm of the winter, and as they turned 
 into Twenty - third Street, on their way to Sixth 
 Avenue, the snow was coming down in thick flakes. 
 The broad sidewalks were not yet emptied of the itin 
 erant venders of cheap Christmas toys poor fellows 
 who stood along the curb-stone and swung their arms 
 to keep warm if they could, and kept crying monot 
 onously, "Ten cents each! Three for a quarter!" 
 The great shops were still open, some of them, for the 
 holiday season was at hand, and Christmas greens al 
 ready decked a window here and there. 
 
 " Where are you taking me ?" asked Sartain, as they 
 neared Sixth Avenue, where the elevated trains were 
 pounding overhead, each with its white feather trailing 
 down over the shoulders of the locomotive. 
 
 "Just look at that!" cried the artist. "There s 
 an arrangement in gray for you that steam and this 
 snow and the electric light ! That s the kind of thing 
 that makes New York a fount of joy to the man who 
 can keep his eyes open." 
 
 "I suppose it is unlike what you see anywhere else," 
 Sartain rejoined ; " steam and electricity and an iron 
 bridge miles long, and the traffic of a great city under 
 neath. I wonder if Ruskin would not call it a vision 
 of hell." 
 
 "Very likely he would/ the painter answered 
 promptly. " Ruskin would do anything ; he even calls 
 himself an art critic ! But all the same, this is just 
 the sort of thing the old yawper praised when Turner 
 tried to paint it as Speed, Steam, and Storm.
 
 142 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 The wind blew sharply down Sixth Avenue, and 
 when they reached the other side they were swathed in 
 snow shaken from the platforms of the elevated rail 
 road. Soon they turned down one of the side streets, 
 and Adams conducted his companion up the stoop of 
 a little brick house, three or four doors from the cor 
 ner. They pushed through the glazed door and passed 
 before a high desk at which a handsome, white-haired 
 lady was sitting. 
 
 "Ah, Monsieur Adan," said she, smiling, "il y a 
 Men longtemps qu on ne vous voit id." 
 
 " Ce soir je vous amene un nouveau client," Adams 
 responded, indicating Sartain. " Quel satane temps? 
 N est-cepasf 
 
 With that they passed into the front room, the ar 
 tist remarking to his companion, "I always swap a 
 foreign phrase or two with the old lady. It goes fur 
 ther than tips to the head-waiter. I don t know her 
 dago diaJect, but in the parleyvoo vocabulary I can 
 make out/ 
 
 Sartain saw that this was like any of the other Italian 
 restaurants he had been to in Boston. The head-wait 
 er bustled up and welcomed Adams cordially, and or 
 dered a subordinate to freshen up a table just vacated 
 in one of the windows. 
 
 The two young fellows settled themselves at once, 
 and the head-waiter brought them a bottle of claret. 
 Then a slim Italian youth appeared with two plates 
 of thin soup, and with a dish of grated cheese to be 
 sprinkled into the watery compound in the vain hope 
 of giving it a little more substance. 
 
 " They say this is called the Fried Cat, after a little 
 restaurant in the Quarter," said Adams.
 
 T1IK HEAU-WAITEK KKOUGIIT THEM A BOTTLE OF CLAKET
 
 A CONFIDEKT TO-MORROW 143 
 
 Sartain knew that by this was meant the Latin Quar 
 ter in Paris, and he thrilled that he was associating 
 with an artist intimate enough with this famed region 
 to contract its name thus familiarly. He did not wish 
 to appear too ignorant of Parisian eating-houses, and 
 so he spoke up. " I met a man in Topeka last winter 
 who had been studying in Paris at Julien s, I think 
 and he told me that the place he went to was called 
 The Hole in the Wall." 
 
 "Never heard of it," the painter responded. "But 
 the Fried Cat was a real place, and it got its name be 
 cause whenever we ordered rabbit we always made them 
 show us the cat s skin, for fear they might ring in rats 
 on us. It didn t matter much what the ingredients 
 were so long as the taste of it was all right. We were 
 all pretty hard up those days I was, for one. As the 
 boys used, to say, it s the devil to have a beer income 
 and a champagne taste. And even here in New York 
 it s policy to keep up your liking for Croton extra sec." 
 
 This encouraged Sartain to ask Adams all about his 
 life in Paris during the two years the painter had spent 
 at the Beaux-Arts. This subject lasted them almost 
 to the end of the dinner. 
 
 Then Adams looked around the two little rooms of 
 the restaurant and said, " There are not many here 
 to-night. There s Clarence Shields over there in 
 the corner and Jerry Quinn, too. You ve heard of 
 him ?" 
 
 The young man who had been on a newspaper in 
 Topeka for three years recognized these names at 
 once. 
 
 "I suppose the thin one is Shields ?" he inquired. 
 
 "No," was the answer, "the thin one is Jerry."
 
 144 A CONFIDENT TO-MOEROW 
 
 " That isn t his real name, is it ?" Sartain asked. 
 "I ve read lots of his comic copy and some of it is 
 pretty good, especially the Irish dialect poems. That s 
 how he came to take the name, I suppose." 
 
 "He took the name when he was baptized," the 
 artist returned, "and he was christened Jerry, too, and 
 not Jeremiah, and he isn t Irish at all, either. He s 
 from Maine, I believe. Shields, now, is Irish." 
 
 "He s the one who looks like a parish priest ?" was 
 the new-comer s next question. "I should never have 
 thought that so chunky a person could have written 
 lyrics as airy as his." 
 
 While they were thus discussing the personal ap 
 pearance of the men at the other table, Shields and 
 Quinn made ready to depart. They had been sitting 
 with their backs to Adams. Now they caught sight 
 of him and came over. 
 
 " What s the good word with you ?" asked the portly 
 Shields, who wore a shabby black coat. 
 
 Adams introduced Sartain to Shields and to Quinn, 
 telling them that the new-comer had been on a Western 
 paper, and now had a job with Carington & Company. 
 Then he ordered a fresh package of cigarettes, and 
 suggested that they have their smoke out at his table. 
 
 Adams mentioned that Sartain was a friend of Mr. 
 Vivian s, and said to Shields, " You don t go to Viv 
 ian s now, do you ? And you used to." 
 
 "No," answered the poet, simply. " You see, I got 
 drunk there one night by mistake." 
 
 Then he took the chair nearest to Sartain. " So it s 
 with Carington you are ?" he began, with more than a 
 hint of a brogue in his pleasant and cultivated voice. 
 "Do yon know now if they ve any departmental work
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 145 
 
 they want done there any art criticism, for in 
 stance ?" 
 
 Sartain had to declare that he was afraid that the 
 staff of Carington & Company was complete. 
 
 "Perhaps there s an opening on Manhattan now," 
 Jerry Qninn broke in. He was a man of thirty, tall 
 and thin. He had a hatchet face and a pronounced 
 down-east accent. I hear there s been another shake- 
 up in the office. But Manhattan is really a wasted 
 opportunity. I m sure there s a big chance for a paper 
 written by New-Yorkers for New-Yorkers. But no 
 body they ve had on it yet has had any gumption. I 
 don t know who s going to run it next, but I ve heard 
 they were cutting down their column rates to five 
 dollars." 
 
 " I ve a poem here the Arctic Monthly has declined," 
 remarked Shields, taking a folded paper from the 
 pocket of his shiny coat. " It s a month, or maybe two, 
 now, since I laid eyes on Manhattan. Read that for me, 
 Jerry, my boy, and see if you think it will do for them." 
 
 The down-easter took the manuscript and read it 
 carefully, while the author helped himself to another 
 cigarette. 
 
 "I shouldn t wonder if you could sell them that," 
 Jerry Quinn declared, returning the sheet to the writer. 
 " But these lines are all pretty long. Seems to me, if 
 I was going to sell that poem where they pay space- 
 rates, I d cut every one of these lines in half and 
 double up the price on them." 
 
 "It s a great big head you have, Jerry," cried the 
 poet in admiration. " I ll copy it out in the morning, 
 and if they take it, I ll have you to dinner here with 
 me." 
 10
 
 146 A CONFIDENT TO-MORKOW 
 
 Jerry Quinn laughed. " Tell you what you ought 
 to do, Clarry : you ought to retain me as your advance- 
 agent, and give me a commission on all the contracts 
 I put you up to." 
 
 "It s a steady desk on that same Manhattan I d 
 like," returned the poet. "And if they want copy, 
 I m the man for them, I m thinking. I can write off 
 hand any part of the whole history of the world with 
 out looking at a book. I won t say that it will be 
 absolutely accurate of course not, nobody is abso 
 lutely accurate but it will be near enough for a news 
 paper, anyway. What is accuracy, after all ? Isn t it 
 the only virtue of the Philistines ?" 
 
 Adams intervened here. " What is a Philistine, 
 after all ?" 
 
 " A Philistine ?" echoed Shields. "Well, now, I m 
 thinking that a Philistine is a man who calls me a 
 Philistine." 
 
 There was a general laugh at this, in which Adams 
 joined. Then he retorted : "That s not my defini 
 tion. A Philistine is a man who gets the better of me 
 in an argument." 
 
 Sartain came into the conversation. "A concrete 
 example of the Philistine," he suggested, "is the 
 man who believes that Bacon wrote Hamlet and 
 Othello! " 
 
 "But I have always maintained Bacon was Shake 
 speare," cried Adams. " The bard led a double life, 
 that s all." 
 
 " It s the letters of Junius, I believe, Bacon wrote," 
 added Shields, falling into the joke. 
 
 " And of course Bacon Avas the Man in the Iron 
 Mask," said Sartain, conscious of a sense of effort.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 147 
 
 " And probably Bacon was the unknown who struck 
 Billy Patterson/ Adams added. 
 
 "How much do you suppose he struck him for?" 
 asked Jerry. 
 
 " It s on the financial side of the transaction Jerry 
 has his mind fixed always, I ve noticed/ Shields com 
 mented. 
 
 Sartain was quite aware that this conversation was 
 a little forced, and that those who took part in it were 
 straining. But none the less he liked it, and he liked 
 to be in the company of men like Adams and Shields 
 and Quinn. 
 
 The little group soon broke up ; and Adams and 
 Sartain tramped through the snow to Broadway to 
 gether, where they separated. The young novelist 
 thanked the artist for the pleasant evening he had 
 had. He wanted to say that he felt as though he 
 were making his first appearance in the New York 
 circle which most closely corresponded to that in Paris 
 celebrated by Henry Miirger ; but he could not find 
 quite the right words to phrase his thought, and he 
 left it unsaid.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE new year brought no change to Sartain. He 
 kept longing to see Esther Dircks again ; he thought 
 of her very often ; he went on idealizing her as the 
 heroine of his new novel. He had only to close his 
 eyes and her image arose before him. So familiar 
 was it to him that he was greatly surprised when one 
 day it occurred to him that as yet he had spoken to 
 the woman he loved only three times in all. It seemed 
 to him as though he had loved her always. It was 
 true also that neither at the Vivians that first after 
 noon nor at the meeting of the Contemporary had he 
 had a chance to talk to her alone ; this precious op 
 portunity had been vouchsafed to him only once. 
 When he recalled their delicious interchange of con 
 fidences that Sunday twilight in Stuyvesant Square, 
 he was impatient for her return to the city that he 
 might attempt to renew this delight. 
 
 But it was six weeks that she remained away by the 
 bedside of her grandmother,, and during these two- 
 score days and more Sartain went about his daily work 
 as usual, and took his customary share of the pleasures 
 of the town. His was a steady flame, but it was no 
 devouring conflagration of the senses, no overwhelm 
 ing passion. His love for Esther did not take away 
 his appetite or keep him awake at night. His un-
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-ilOEEOW 149 
 
 conquerable resolve was to win her for his wife ; she 
 was the woman he wanted and meant to have if she 
 would take him. But his devotion to her did not 
 interfere with the regular routine of his. existence. 
 
 At night he worked unceasingly on his new novel, 
 which grew rapidly under his hands, and he did his 
 work faithfully every day at the office ; but he had 
 discovered that the affairs of Carington & Company 
 were not running smoothly. Salaries were still paid 
 regularly, yet there were not lacking signs that the 
 money to meet the weekly bills had been raised with 
 difficulty. Sartaiii was still able to have sent to Dircks 
 not a few of the small jobs of engraving that were ab 
 solutely needed. In thus aiding Esther s father it 
 seemed to the young man almost as though he were 
 bringing himself in some way closer to her although, 
 of course, he never expected her to know that he had 
 had anything to do with her father s orders. 
 
 It was through the art-editor that he received the 
 first news of Esther s probable return. A process- 
 block had been sent to Mr. Dircks to retouch, with a 
 request that he return it within the week. This was 
 about the middle of January ; and the next day the en 
 graver had come in to tell the art-editor that he could 
 not do the work within the required time, as he had 
 to go West having just received a telegram from his 
 daughter announcing the death of her grandmother. 
 
 Sartain calculated that Dircks and his daughter 
 would return early in the following week, and that 
 they certainly would be back in Stuyvesant Square 
 by the Sunday after. He determined to call then. 
 
 Yet when the day came he hesitated. He asked 
 himself whether he was intimate enough with Esther
 
 150 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 to intrude upon her within a fortnight after the death 
 of her grandmother. He kept up the debate with 
 himself for the five minutes it took him to walk from 
 Irving Place to Stuyvesant Square ; and the decision 
 was given for the affirmative, not from any logical 
 reason, but simply because the young man felt that he 
 must see her again and as soon as possible. 
 
 It was the gruff voice of her father through the 
 speaking-tube that bade him come up ; and when he 
 entered the front room where he had last seen her, 
 almost two months earlier, he found only Eaphael 
 Dircks. 
 
 It was early in the afternoon, and the sun shone 
 warmly although it was a bitter January day. In the 
 clear light the bareness of the sitting-room was more 
 obvious than it had been at his earlier visit. There 
 was only a small square of worn carpet in the centre 
 of the floor. There was only one small table. There 
 were no ornaments, except on the mantel-piece three 
 silver photograph-frames containing portraits of Mr. 
 Vivian s daughters. 
 
 Her father stood with his back to the fireplace, 
 where a small hard-coal fire glowed dully. His long 
 frame, topped by his head with its full beard and its 
 mass of straggling white hair, made the room appear 
 smaller than it was. He held the Sunday supplement 
 of the Gotham Gazette in his hand, and he had a corn 
 cob pipe in his mouth. 
 
 When he saw Sartain he laid aside the pipe and the 
 paper, and greeted his visitor cordially, gripping the 
 new-comer s hand in his own huge and hairy paw. 
 
 Sartain inquired at once about Esther. "Has not 
 your daughter returned ?" he asked, anxiously.
 
 A CONFIDENT TOMORROW 151 
 
 11 Yes/ was the sententious answer, as the old man 
 took up his pipe, knocked out the ashes, and began to 
 refill it from a pouch on the table. 
 
 " Isn t she well to-day ?" was the young man s next 
 question. 
 
 " Yes," responded her father, lighting the pipe with 
 a match. 
 
 Sartain said nothing while Dircks puffed for a few 
 seconds in silence. Generally, he was able to talk 
 easily with her father, since the old man seemed to 
 be glad to have some one else bear the burden of the 
 conversation and express his thoughts for him. To 
 day the two monosyllabic responses chilled the young 
 man s desire to talk, and left him with nothing to 
 say. 
 
 Finally Mr. Dircks raised his slow, black eyes, and 
 looked at Sartaiu from under his beetling brows. 
 
 " She s in there," the old man began, indicating 
 the rear room by a movement of his broad shoulder. 
 " She s lying down." 
 
 " I suppose she must be very much fatigued with 
 the strain of the past weeks," said Sartain. 
 
 " She s tired," her father continued. " But she ll 
 come in soon ; meantime you read that," and he 
 picked up the newspaper and held it out to his visitor 
 with his big thumb spread over the paragraph he 
 wished Sartain to peruse. 
 
 The young man skimmed the few lines of print with 
 the speed of a practised newspaper reader. He recog 
 nized them as a quotation from an article in the Arctic 
 Monthly of that month. 
 
 " Eead it out," Dircks repeated when he caught 
 Sartain s eye.
 
 152 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 The young man remembered the poem Esther had 
 been bidden to read aloud the last time he had called. 
 He fancied now that the old man was a little slow of 
 apprehension, and liked to absorb anything he ap 
 proved by the ear as well as by the eye. 
 
 What Sartain read was this : The good American 
 is typified for us in the past by Washington and Frank 
 lin, by Emerson and Lincoln, men of simple tastes, 
 all of them, accepting plain living that they might 
 have high thinking. The bad American is with us in 
 the present in the persons of the wrecker of railroads, 
 the manipulator of trusts, and the briber of legislative 
 committees the man who is willing to make money 
 anyhow, so long as he makes a great deal. It is for 
 us to decide which type is to dominate our civilization 
 in the future. Our present aristocracy of wealth has 
 neither breeding nor common-sense nor patriotism. 
 It has vanity without pride. It is ostentatious and 
 vulgar and trivial. It is snobbish to a degree unknown 
 in the older countries from which it has borrowed its 
 outworn idols. Any one who has read the newspapers 
 for the last ten years can name more than one rich 
 man, and more than one rich man s son, who has been 
 sowing dragon s teeth, sure to spring up armed men in 
 due season. The career of these men of great wealth 
 is a direct incentive to riot and rapine, to nihilism and 
 to anarchy." 
 
 When Sartain had finished reading, he looked up at 
 Dircks, and for the first time he remarked the extreme 
 whiteness of the Avhites of the old man s eyes. 
 
 " That s good !" Dircks declared. " I ain t more 
 notional than any other man, but I know what s right 
 and what s wrong. And it ain t right for one man to
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOBBOW 153 
 
 have money to waste when another man hasn t any to 
 pay for food !" 
 
 " It is not easy to say just how we should control 
 the distribution of wealth/ Sartain returned. "But 
 what most annoys me is the foolish way in which so 
 many of these rich men s sons waste their inheritance. 
 I should think they would like to have some fun with 
 their money buying books and pictures and statuary, 
 or building public fountains, or making parks for the 
 poor people. There s one of them now has a paper, 
 called Manhattan, and he doesn t know what to do 
 with it. I think there s an idea in it a New York 
 weekly, just for New- Yorkers, ought to succeed." 
 
 11 You would like to edit a paper ?" asked Dircks, 
 with another lowering of his eyebrows, as he gazed 
 intently at Sartain. 
 
 " I don t know that I should make a good editor," 
 said the young man, modestly. " But I should dearly 
 love to try my hand at it. And I believe that there 
 is really an opening now for a paper like Manhattan, 
 but the young dude who has been paying the bills will 
 tire of it sooner or later, and then sell it or stop it." 
 
 " If he d been losing on it he d sell it cheap," was 
 Dircks s only comment. 
 
 Sartain wondered if Esther in the next room could 
 hear what they had been saying, if she had recognized 
 his voice, if that was why she did not come in, and if 
 she would think his visit that afternoon an unpardon 
 able assumption. 
 
 As though her father had read his thoughts, Dircks 
 turned heavily in his chair and called to her. "Es 
 ther !" 
 
 "Yes, father," was the response ; and it was with a
 
 154 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKROW 
 
 thrill of pleasure that the young man heard her voice 
 again. 
 
 " Here s Mr. Sartain come to visit Avith you !" the 
 old man said. 
 
 " Oh !" she cried. " Well tell him I ll be there in 
 a minute." 
 
 But it was nearly five minutes before she kept her 
 word. And when the door opened at last and she came 
 gliding in, he was shocked to see how worn she was 
 and how thin. In her simple black dress she was paler 
 than ever, and slighter. The sunlight glinted from 
 the ashen gold of her hair, and she appeared to Sartain 
 more ethereal than before, more like some rare orchid, 
 disdainful of any connection with the soil. 
 
 His heart leaped within him as his hand touched 
 hers. He wished that he could fold her in his arms 
 and bid her lie there, secure and protected. What he 
 said was that he hoped she had not overfatigned her 
 self. She answered that she had been very tired, but 
 that she had been resting the two days since she came 
 home. Sartain had no liking for the details of disease 
 and death ; but he felt the need of breaking the silence, 
 and he asked when her grandmother had died on 
 what day ? 
 
 She told him ; and then she went on to tell him all 
 about her grandmother s last hours, and how the old 
 lady was very fond of her and very good to her. In 
 telling him all these things, she broke down once or 
 twice, and wept a little ; and then he would beg her 
 not to continue, if it was painful to her ; and she would 
 insist, informing him that it was a relief to talk about 
 her grandmother, who was so kind and sweet. She 
 confided to him that, much as she should miss the old
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 155 
 
 lady, she could not wish her alive again, since it would 
 only prolong her suffering fruitlessly. And then she 
 declared that this seemed to her so heartless that she 
 could not forgive herself for holding such an opin 
 ion. 
 
 He informed her that he understood exactly what 
 she meant and how she felt ; and he tried to encour 
 age her and to make her believe that she had done 
 her duty fully. He assured her that her presence 
 must have been a great comfort to the old lady; and 
 she confessed that this was so, since her grandmother 
 did not want her out of sight towards the end, and 
 had followed her about the room with her eyes after 
 she had lost the power of speech. Then he begged 
 her to believe that it would be a satisfaction to her al 
 ways to remember that she had been present during her 
 grandmother s last hours, and that she had done all 
 she could to comfort and sustain the dying woman. 
 She admitted that this was true enough, but still she 
 reproached herself for her thought. 
 
 He assured her that this was merely morbid, and 
 that she should throw off such strained fancies. Her 
 first duty now, so he continued, was to herself and 
 to her father, of course. She must rest and regain 
 her strength. She ought to take very good care of 
 herself during the remainder of the winter, as the 
 climate of New York was so treacherous. Especially 
 ought she to take life easily until she had wholly re 
 covered her former health and vigor ; she should be 
 very careful not to overtask herself. 
 
 Then she told him how good Johnny had been in 
 agreeing to do her reading for her at Bellevue Hos 
 pital.
 
 156 A CONFIDENT TO-MOEEOW 
 
 "I did not know you went to Bellevue?" he declared. 
 
 " Oh yes/ she answered, " Dora and Theo and I 
 belong to a Ten a Ten of the King s Daughters, you 
 know. And we promised this fall to go to Bellevue 
 two afternoons a week to read to the convalescents. 
 And while I ve been away Johnny has taken my turn, 
 and she isn t a King s Daughter either. She wouldn t 
 join when we did." 
 
 "I wonder why not ?" Sartain commented. 
 
 "Fin sure I don t know," Esther answered. "Per 
 haps she knew she was good enough without belonging 
 to anything. She is really good, you know. Fm de 
 voted to Dora and Theo, but they are not half as good 
 as Johnny is." 
 
 This was entirely a new suggestion to Sartain, who 
 had not hitherto looked on Mr. Vivian s eldest daugh 
 ter as the embodiment of goodness. 
 
 By this time twilight was descending on the city, and 
 Mr. Dircks, rousing himself from his revery, struck a 
 match on his trousers and lighted the gas. Then Sar 
 tain rose to his feet at once, apologized for staying so 
 long, and was assured that it did not seem a quarter of 
 an hour since he came. 
 
 As he was going Esther invited him to come again 
 on Sunday afternoon, because even if she Avere not at 
 home her father would be glad of a chat with him. 
 
 At the head of the stairs Dircks himself called 
 down, "That paper now what s its name ?" 
 
 " What paper ?" asked Sartain, surprised. 
 
 " The paper about New York," was the old man s 
 reply. "The one the fool s losing money on ?" 
 
 "Oh," the young man answered, "you mean Man 
 hattan ?"
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 157 
 
 That s it,"Dircks repeated, "Manhattan. I must 
 remember the name." 
 
 When Sartain got out into the street and began to 
 walk briskly up Lover s Lane, he went over again in 
 his mind the whole conversation with Esther Dircks ; 
 and he was astonished to discover that she had received 
 him at once on a friendly footing. It was only the 
 fourth time he and she had exchanged words, and it 
 seemed to him that in this fourth meeting he had 
 made a great stride towards intimacy. The first time 
 he had gone to the house in Stuyvesant Square, that 
 drizzling afternoon in November, he had been a mere 
 casual acquaintance making a first call. On this sec 
 ond visit he had been accepted at once as though he 
 were a familiar friend. That he should have made 
 this progress was to him inexplicable, since he and she 
 had not spoken or corresponded in the two months in 
 terval between the two interviews.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 DURING the next month, as it chanced, Sartain was 
 able to see Esther only twice once again at the house 
 in Stuyvesant Square on a Sunday afternoon, and once 
 at the Vivians on the Saturday following. He went 
 to the novelist s two or three times without finding 
 her there. Even on the two occasions when he did 
 get speech with her, the conversation was unsatisfac 
 tory in so much as they were not alone. At Mr. Viv 
 ian s there were a couple of slim young men talking 
 to the twins; and this was perhaps the reason that 
 Johnny kept her place by the side of Esther, thus forc 
 ing Sartain to talk to both of them at the same time, 
 which was a strain on his shyness. On the Sunday 
 afternoon when he called at Stuyvesant Square he 
 found Johnny there, who had come to discuss a pro 
 posed change in the hours when they were to read at 
 Bellevue, and who remained as long as he did. 
 
 In other ways, also, January and February were 
 months of doubt. The affairs of Carington & Com 
 pany were becoming more and more involved, and 
 there were not wanting signs of impending failure. 
 
 In the meantime he took advantage of the respite 
 time allowed him and toiled away on A Wolf at the 
 Door. The manuscript grew steadily under his pen ; 
 and although he felt the pressure of the book the
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 159 
 
 dead weight every novelist has to carry, the insistence 
 of a single idea he worked on without hasting and 
 without resting. Towards the end of February he was 
 able to look forward to the time when he could send 
 A Wolf at the Door either to the Metropolis or to the 
 Arctic, he had not yet decided which. 
 
 In the last week of February he met Esther Dircks 
 again ; but once more he was able to talk to her alone 
 only for a few minutes. It was at an exhibition of 
 paintings held at one of the galleries on Fifth Avenue. 
 Adams had sent Sartain a card for the private view, 
 which took place on the afternoon of the last Saturday 
 of the month. 
 
 As he was free early on Saturdays, Sartain was one 
 of the first visitors to arrive. He found that each of 
 four artists had grouped from six to ten of his paint 
 ings in his own corner of the gallery. He went at 
 once to Adams s pictures, and he found that the chief 
 of them was a " Cinderella," elaborated from the swift 
 pencil sketch he had seen that first afternoon in New 
 York when he had made Esther s acquaintance. Nei 
 ther she nor the twins had posed for it since, but 
 Adams had utilized professional models in the po 
 sitions assumed by the three girls on the table at Mr. 
 Vivian s. The likeness of either of the twins had been 
 lost in the actual painting ; that of Esther had been 
 preserved, and the artist had been most successful in 
 catching the grace of her attitude and in suggesting 
 the charm of her manner. What Sartain most liked 
 about the picture was its uncompromising modernity. 
 Here was the heroine of the old fairy-tale, and she 
 was a New York girl of the nineteenth century ; yet 
 somehow while you were under the spell of the paint-
 
 160 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 er s art you accepted this, and even thought that this 
 was exactly what she ought to be. There was breadth 
 in the handling, and a bold simplicity that Sartain en 
 joyed. Adams could paint that nobody could deny. 
 Sartain wondered whether or not Esther would see 
 how the painter s affection for her was written large 
 upon the picture. Sartain could see this plainly enough 
 could she ? 
 
 "When Adams arrived, Sartain congratulated him. 
 
 " I m glad you like it/ the painter responded. " I 
 think it s the swellest thing I ve done. The compo 
 sition wasn t easy, either ; and I had dead loads of 
 trouble working out the color-scheme." 
 
 Surprised that the artist saw only the technical 
 merits of his own work, the literary man asked him 
 if he were not also pleased that the character of his 
 picture was very modern, and that its sentiment never 
 slopped over into sentimentality. 
 
 " Yes, that s so, too," Adams explained ; "but then 
 I can t help that, and, in a sense, I don t deserve any 
 credit for it. That modern note you like is the one I 
 must strike ; I couldn t strike any other if I tried. I 
 was born so. And I m glad you don t think that pict 
 ure is sentimental but I couldn t help it if it was. 
 You see, it is just this way how I see things and how 
 much sentiment I put into a picture, that s something 
 I have little or nothing to do with ; that s something 
 decided for me once for all at my birth ; no effort 
 would ever make me any different. So long as I do my 
 best always you will like my modern point of view, 
 and you will think that my sentiment is all right. 
 Other fellows won t like what I do, if they dislike 
 modern life and if they like sentimentality. I ve in-
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 161 
 
 herited certain gifts, certain ways of looking at life ; 
 and so I see things in a certain way, because that s 
 the only way I can see them. Another man would 
 have to paint them in another way. But where I am 
 responsible is in my teclmic that isn t a gift ; that 
 doesn t come by inheritance ; that s the result of hard 
 work, and of taking thought, and of putting my back 
 into it, and of doing my best always, and of never 
 being satisfied." 
 
 "But I thought you were satisfied with Cin 
 derella here/ Sartain retorted. 
 
 "Not a bit of it," the artist rejoined, promptly. 
 "It s the best thing I ve ever done, I think, and I 
 guess I can see its merits now as clearly as anybody 
 else ever will. But satisfied with it ? Not much. 
 Why, I d like to be able to build a studio just to paint 
 that picture in, and to have the models I want, and 
 to be free to take all the time I need, and then 
 
 "And then you would be satisfied ?" asked Sartain, 
 smiling. 
 
 "And then I should probably not be any better 
 pleased with it than I am now," Adams confessed, 
 rumpling his hair with a familiar gesture that in 
 creased the quizzical expression on his face. 
 
 The number of visitors in the gallery was slowly in 
 creasing. While the two young men were standing be 
 fore Adams s picture a group of girls entered and 
 gazed about. One of them, catching sight of the 
 "Cinderella," detached herself and came towards the 
 corner where the young men were. When she saw 
 them, she hesitated for a moment and then pressed 
 forward again. 
 
 " There s no need of your wasting any more time 
 11
 
 162 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 looking at these things of mine/ said Adams, loung 
 ing away at last. 
 
 When his eyes fell upon the young lady, now not 
 two yards from him, he sprang forward. " Why, Miss 
 Esther I" he cried, and Sartain turned instantly. 
 
 " I thought that was a face I d seen before/ she 
 said, holding out her hand. 
 
 "I guess you might have seen it behind since 
 talking to you always turns my head," the artist re 
 joined. 
 
 " And Mr. Sartain, too \" the girl went on, shaking 
 hands with him also. " I m sorry father isn t going 
 to be here this afternoon. I m sure he would have 
 liked to hear what you say about all these pictures. 
 He thinks so much of your opinion, Mr. Sartain." 
 
 The young man wanted to say that he would rejoice 
 if her father s daughter also held him in high esteem, 
 but his shyness seized him, and all that he could do 
 was to mumble, "Does he ? I didn t know it." 
 
 Sartain for the first time saw a woman whose por 
 trait had been painted, standing before her counter 
 feit presentment. He wished that he could turn a 
 pretty phrase on the superiority of nature over art ; 
 but he felt that, even if he found the fit words, he 
 would never be able to utter them. Still more did he 
 wish that Adams were not there. Before the painter, 
 whom he knew to be both a rival and a confident 
 talker, he was ill at ease and impatient. He had 
 often ascribed shyness to conceit ; and he now won 
 dered whether he was really as conceited as his ex 
 treme shyness seemed to indicate. 
 
 He stood silent by her side, while Adams rattled 
 along, making her laugh with the first remark ; and
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 163 
 
 he heard her declare that she had come with the three 
 V T ivian girls, and that she had best try to get them 
 out of the gallery before Dora and Theo could see how 
 he had represented the Haughty Sisters. She indi 
 cated the corner of the hall where the twins and 
 Johnny were, but he showed no inclination to leave 
 her. Then, almost arbitrarily, so it seemed to Sartain, 
 she insisted on Adams s going to the Vivians. Kather 
 reluctantly the artist obeyed her; and Sartain found 
 that he and Esther were left alone together in the 
 thickening crowd of visitors. 
 
 " You say your father is not to be here this after 
 noon," he began. "I hope that he is not ill ?" 
 
 " Ob no," she answered. " He is quite well, thank 
 you. But he is very busy just now." 
 
 Sartain was glad to hear this, and he thought that 
 probably some of the orders on which Dircks was en 
 gaged were the result of his own influence upon the 
 art-editor of Carington & Company. He wished that 
 Esther knew what he had done for her father, little as 
 it was ; but, of course, he could not tell her. 
 
 "The days are so short now," he said, "I suppose 
 your father begrudges every hour of light he gives to 
 anything but engraving." 
 
 "Oh, he isn t working on a block to-day," the gi^. 
 answered, raising her liquid eyes. " It s business that 
 keeps him busy now. Father has to see the lawyers, 
 you know, and have papers signed, and all that sort 
 of thing. They wouldn t even let him go to the opera 
 this-af ternoon, and I know he hated to miss the Meis- 
 tersinger." 
 
 " Lawyers ?" Sartain repeated, puzzled. Is he in 
 trouble at all?"
 
 164 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 She laughed the merry little laugh he always found 
 so fascinating. 
 
 " Why, don t you know ?" she asked. " My grand 
 mother left us a little money. And that s trouble 
 enough, goodness knows. Father hasn t been able to 
 do any of his own work for a week or more." 
 
 The young man told her that he did not know of 
 her good fortune, and he congratulated her cordially. 
 But his own heart sank for a second at the thought 
 that here was another obstacle to his suit, since, if she 
 had wealth, he would have no right to ask her to share 
 his poverty. Then his common-sense came to his res 
 cue, and he confessed the absurdity of these roman 
 tic scruples. If she had money, so much the better 
 for her and for both of them, were she willing ever 
 to marry him. So long as there was no gross inequal 
 ity of fortune, the better off either of them might be 
 the easier their married life would be. 
 
 Oh, the money isn t mine," she said, in response 
 to his congratulations. " It s all father s now. Why, 
 I m not twenty-one for a year yet ; and it seems ever 
 so long before I m to have any of it. I don t know 
 anything about business, either ; and father has to do 
 it all for me." 
 
 He asked if Mr. Dircks would give up wood-engrav 
 ing and devote himself to the care of their inheri 
 tance. 
 
 " Oh dear, no," she answered, with another cheery 
 little laugh. " It isn t so much as all that. Why, my 
 grandmother wasn t really rich not what they call 
 rich here in New York and then I ve lots of cousins 
 out there. You mustn t think we are going to roll in 
 wealth. Nobody will want to marry me for my money.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKROW 165 
 
 I m not an heiress, like Johnny." Then she paused, 
 and a slight blush mantled her cheek as she added, 
 " You know that Johnny and Theo and Dora have lots 
 and lots of money ?" 
 
 Before he could make any reply to this the Vivians 
 and Adams joined them. The three girls shook hands 
 with Sartain cordially. Johnny was rather more manly 
 in her attire than usual, and as a result she was not so 
 attractive in Sartain s eyes. The twins laid hold of 
 Esther; and in the readjustment of relative positions, 
 Sartain found himself standing by Johnny, a little out 
 side of the group which centred about Adams. 
 
 Of the four girls, it was with Johnny that Sartain 
 was under least constraint, since his love for Esther 
 sometimes struck him dumb in her presence. Johnny 
 was a good fellow Adams was right in saying that. 
 She was friendly and sympathetic. Sartain found no 
 difficulty in talking to her ; and it did not strike him 
 at first that this was due to her tact. He liked her, and 
 he wished that he had such an elder sister to whom he 
 could go for counsel and for comfort. Before he was 
 aware of it, he found that he and Johnny were standing 
 together in front of the " Cinderella," and that he could 
 not then leave her alone without obvious rudeness. 
 
 Johnny had been studying the picture again, and 
 now she turned to the young man by her side. "It is 
 well done, isn t it ?" she asked. " Papa is right in de 
 claring that Madams knows how to put paint on can 
 vas as well as anybody in America." 
 
 " Yes," Sartain responded, " it is well painted. Of 
 course, I know little about such things, but the tech- 
 nic seems to me masterly. And there s a heart behind 
 the brush-work."
 
 166 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 "You wouldn t suspect it, if you only heard him 
 talk," said Johnny ; "would you ?" 
 
 "You can t help admitting it," he answered, "if 
 you note how he has brought out the immaterial 
 beauty of Cinderella how he has seized the spiritual 
 ity of Miss Dircks s face." 
 
 "He has been studying Esther s face for a long 
 while," she retorted; "it s no wonder he has it by 
 heart now." 
 
 "It isn t merely that it is done lovingly," Sartain 
 returned, " it s the subtle skill with which he seems to 
 have suggested the soul beneath." 
 
 Johnny gave a little laugh, not mocking, exactly, 
 although there was a hint of hardness in it. "You 
 couldn t speak more enthusiastically about her," she 
 said, "if you were in love with her, as Madams is." 
 
 Sartain never knew what sudden impulse possessed 
 him and made him surrender his secret. 
 
 "And supposing I was," he asked, "do you think I 
 should have any right to hope ?" 
 
 For a few seconds the healthy color in Johnny s 
 cheek paled, but she made no immediate reply. She 
 only gave him a curious look a look which he did not 
 understand at all. 
 
 " If I were in love with her," persisted he, " do you 
 think I should have a chance ?" 
 
 " How should I know what another girl is likely to 
 do ?" Johnny asked in return. 
 
 "But you know Tier," he urged; "she went to 
 school with your sisters, and you know all about her." 
 
 "Yes," said Johnny, calmly. "I know all about 
 her." 
 
 " Then you will tell me all you know, won t you ?"
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOEEOW 167 
 
 he went on. "And you will be patient with me, 
 won t you ? I must have somebody I can talk to about 
 her, and you are the only one. You will let me, won t 
 you ? It s selfish, of course, for me to want to bother 
 you with my love for her ; I know it is, and I beg your 
 pardon now for obtruding it upon you. I can t guess 
 Avhy I told you ; I had no intention of doing it, I assure 
 you. It slipped out before I knew it. But now I have 
 told you, now you do know, you will listen to me, 
 won t you, Miss Johnny ?" 
 
 "I am listening," she said. 
 
 "You will let me talk to you about her," he pur 
 sued. "You will tell me all you know of her and of 
 her ways ? It would be so kind of you, if you would ! 
 If there was anything I could do for you in return, I d 
 do it but, of course, I know there isn t, for you have 
 everything you want. But if there was anything at 
 all, I d do it gladly." 
 
 To this strange avowal, made in a low voice, in the 
 corner of a crowded picture-gallery, Johnny had lis 
 tened without a gesture. Probably any one who had 
 seen the young man pleading with the tall, handsome 
 girl, and who had overheard the eagerness in his voice, 
 might have thought that it was she he loved, and that 
 he was proposing to her then. 
 
 At last she raised her head and looked at him. 
 "You do love her!" she said, slowly. "There s no 
 doubt of that !" 
 
 " You can t guess how much I love her !" Sartain 
 answered. 
 "Johnny made no reply. 
 
 " Of course, I don t hope to have her love me now, 
 not even a little," he continued. " She scarcely knows
 
 168 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 me, after all. And what am I that she should love me, 
 anyhow ? I haven t anything to offer her nothing 
 but the love I have for her. What I want you to tell 
 me is this : do you think that Adams has a chance 
 now ? Has she changed her mind since she rejected 
 him last ? And and is there anybody else that I don t 
 know ? You see, I love her so much, she seems so 
 beautiful to me so exquisite, so perfect that I don t 
 see how it is everybody else isn t in love with her. 
 too." 
 
 Johnny answered him gravely. "I don t know 
 whether Adams has a better chance now than he had 
 last summer. I haven t an idea. Esther may have 
 come to like him better than she did then but I can t 
 tell you." 
 
 " I must run the risk of that," sighed Sartain ; " and 
 Adams isn t a rival to be sneered at. He can paint 
 her, too, and I can t do anything. But but is there 
 anybody else in love with her anybody I don t know ?" 
 
 " I think not," declared Johnny " at least, I have 
 not heard of anybody else, and I have seen nothing to 
 make me think that Esther has any more admirers." 
 Then she checked herself and laughed again. " Surely 
 she has her full share with Madams and with you, 
 hasn t she ? I never saw two more devoted lovers. I 
 don t see why you should both choose me for a confi 
 dant." 
 
 " Has Adams talked to you about her, too ?" asked 
 Sartain. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. "When Madams and I hap 
 pen to be together, he never talks of anything but 
 Esther. Now you are following his example. Perhaps 
 it is lucky for me that there are not more of the men
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 169 
 
 I know in love with her. Strange as it may seem to 
 you, I fear I might find a certain monotony in having 
 another woman s perfection as the sole topic of con 
 versation." 
 
 By this time the twins had made the circuit of the 
 gallery with Esther and Adams, and the merry group 
 was coming back to Johnny and Sartain, augmented 
 by Mr. Vivian and by a sprightly young woman. 
 
 As Vivian was shaking hands with Sartain, the lat 
 ter heard the sprightly young woman thank the twins 
 for all the information they had given her. 
 
 Then the twins turned to Johnny. 
 
 " You can t guess who that is ?" said Dora. 
 
 " We ve been interviewed !" Theo explained. 
 
 " Was that a reporter ?" Johnny asked, with a lan 
 guid interest. "What did she want ?" 
 
 " She wanted to know who Esther was," Theo an 
 swered. " She d recognized her as the original Cin 
 derella." 
 
 "But she said she d no idea that we were the 
 Haughty Sisters," Dora broke in. " So Madams has 
 failed to disgrace us in the eyes of the public." 
 
 " How did you come to tell her anything ?" Johnny 
 inquired. " I didn t know we had any lady journal 
 ists on our visiting-list." 
 
 " She had met papa," Dora answered. 
 
 " At least, she claimed she had," Theo added ; " and 
 you know papa he was too polite to deny it." 
 
 " She said that she had been up to interview me 
 once," Mr. Vivian admitted. " That is very likely." 
 
 " She was an engaging young thing, I thought," 
 commented the painter. "I d like to do her in water- 
 colors."
 
 170 A CONTIDENT TO-MOKROW 
 
 " Do you think she is one of those whose color will 
 wash off ?" asked Johnny. 
 
 "Come now," Adams returned, "don t be hard on 
 a poor girl who has to earn her living the best way she 
 can. You ve no right to be down on her because she 
 isn t as wealthy as you are. Now, I don t care for 
 money myself ; what I want is brains." 
 
 " What you want is brains ?" repeated Johnny, 
 mockingly. " Exactly !" 
 
 " I don t see " Adams began. 
 
 But Johnny interrupted him. " You don t see ? 
 Of course you don t. You are as blind as a bat, even 
 about your own interests. When a thing is going on 
 right under your eyes, you never see it !" 
 
 Sartain heard with surprise the acerbity with which 
 Johnny spoke. Hitherto when she and Adams had 
 fenced there had been buttons on the foils, but this 
 time it seemed as though the girl preferred the unguard 
 ed small-sword and wanted to wound. Apparently the 
 painter was conscious of this, for he refused to retort. 
 
 After a brief general conversation about the pict 
 ures, the party broke up. The three Vivians took 
 Esther home with them in their carriage, as Satur 
 day was their day for receiving. 
 
 When they had driven off, Mr. Vivian walked down 
 Fifth Avenue with the two young men till he came 
 to one of his clubs, and there he left them. 
 
 Just as they were going on again the elder novelist 
 called them back. 
 
 "By-the-way, Sartain," he said, "can you come and 
 see me to-morrow about four o clock ? Mr. Dircks will 
 be there then, and he has a little scheme he desires 
 me to propose to you."
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 171 
 
 " Certainly/* the young man answered, much as 
 tonished. " At four to-morrow ? I shall be delighted 
 to come." 
 
 As the young men paced along down Fifth Avenue, 
 Sartain hardly heard what Adams was saying, as he 
 was trying to puzzle out why Mr. Dircks could pos 
 sibly want to see him. Just before they came to the 
 corner of Thirty-fourth Street, he made up his mind 
 that it was hopeless for him to try and guess. He had 
 only twenty-four hours to wait, and then he would 
 hear what this scheme was. He turned his attention 
 back to his companion in time to hear the painter ask, 
 " What was the matter with Johnny, anyway ? Did yon 
 notice how she jumped on me that time, just before 
 we came out ?" 
 
 Sartain admitted that he had observed it. 
 
 " I don t know what got into her," Adams admitted. 
 " Generally when we have our little scraps, she never 
 hits below the belt, but just now she got in two or 
 three foul blows. She couldn t have been savager if 
 she d been crossed in love I"
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A DOZEN times within the next twenty-four hours 
 did Sartain ask himself why he had made a confidant of 
 Mr. Vivian s eldest daughter. He regretted that he had 
 let her or any one have a glimpse of his deeper feel 
 ings. He trusted Johnny ; he knew he could rely on 
 her loyalty, he was sure she would keep his secret. 
 Yet there was a something in the way she had received 
 his confidence that puzzled him. Perhaps it was no 
 more than a change of attitude on her part towards 
 a man who, as she was now aware, loved another wom 
 an. Sartain pretended to no expertness in feminine 
 psychology ; indeed, he often felt how his growth as a 
 writer of fiction was cramped by his ignorance of 
 women. 
 
 In the morning, when he began to turn over the 
 thirty or forty pages which composed the regular Sun 
 day edition of the Daily Dial, he saw an outline of 
 Adams s " Cinderella," and below this he beheld a 
 scrambling sketch of three girls standing on a table 
 in poses copied from those in the picture. As he read 
 the head -lines of the accompanying article his face 
 flamed, and the wish sprang up hot in his heart to go 
 down to the office of the Daily Dial, and to cowhide 
 the brute who was responsible for the insertion of 
 the offending matter. At the end he found the sig-
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROAV 173 
 
 nature, " Polly Perkins," and he assumed at once that 
 the vulgar stuff had been composed by the sprightly 
 young woman they had met at the gallery the after 
 noon before. 
 
 There is no need to analyze the article which thus 
 annoyed Sartain, as a selection from the scare-heads 
 that introduced it will be sufficient to display its 
 quality: "High Jinks on the Top Floor;" "Lovely 
 Ladies as Artists Models ;" " Literature and Art ;" 
 " Dainty Little Esther Dircks as Cinderella ;" " Novel 
 ist Vivian s Vivacious Daughters as the Haughty Sis 
 ters ;" " Pretty Girls Pose on Parlor Tables." Never 
 before had the vulgarity of this kind of journalism re 
 volted him as it did now, when he beheld the woman 
 he loved thus exposed to the public gaze. Yet there 
 was no redress. Plainly enough the article was not 
 libellous ; it revealed no animus on the part of the 
 writer ; it made no statement absolutely false ; only it 
 was leering and sneering and coarse. Sartain read it 
 a second time carefully, to come to the conclusion that 
 the girl who wrote it was now so used to the concoc 
 tion of such stuff that she was no longer aware of its 
 offensiveness. 
 
 This was what he suggested to Mr. Vivian when he 
 kept his appointment with the novelist that afternoon. 
 
 "Very likely Polly Perkins thought that she was 
 giving three other girls a good notice," Vivian de 
 clared, as he conducted his visitor through the narrow 
 corridor towards his own library. "The dyer s hand, 
 you remember subdued to what it works in !" 
 
 "It s disgusting !" cried Sartain, shaking himself. 
 
 " It is pitiful," Vivian admitted. " Some of these 
 Sunday papers here make me understand the saying of
 
 174 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 Carmen Sylva you remember? that if Gutenberg 
 could have foreseen modern journalism he would have 
 destroyed his invention." 
 
 "I wonder who can want to read a thing of that 
 sort ?" Sartain exclaimed. 
 
 " You and I did read it/ Vivian answered. " But I 
 will say for myself that I happened to see it at the club. 
 I do not allow the Dial in the house now. And there 
 fore I must request you not to mention the article to 
 the girls ; there is no need that their minds should be 
 contaminated." They had now come to the door of 
 the library. Mr. Vivian threw it open, saying, " You 
 will find Mr. Dircks waiting for you." 
 
 Sartain blinked in the sudden glare of the winter 
 sunshine, and then he recognized Mr. Dircks seated 
 almost in the centre of the bow-window. The large 
 form of the old man filled the comfortable arm-chair. 
 His white hair was longer than usual, and fell 011 the 
 collar of his dark-gray coat. His grizzled beard spread 
 out on his chest and gave him a patriarchal appear 
 ance, the benignancy of which was contradicted only 
 by the bristling eyebrows. 
 
 " I have asked Sartain to come here this afternoon," 
 Vivian began, " at your request, Mr. Dircks. He 
 knows that you wish to make him a proposition." 
 
 Sartain turned his gaze from Vivian to Dircks. The 
 old man moved uneasily in his chair, and he made a 
 vague murmur to Sartain. Turning to his host, he 
 said, " You tell him," and then he settled himself once 
 more in his seat, with his gaze fixed on the young man. 
 It was then that Sartain discovered for the first time 
 that Esther had her father s eyes. 
 
 " I do not think that I can state the case for you as
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKKOW 175 
 
 well as you could yourself," Mr. Vivian responded. 
 " But I will attempt the task, if you desire." 
 
 Sartain remarked how clear was Vivian s speech, and 
 how distinct was his enunciation. His delivery was like 
 his handwriting ; both were the result of a belief that 
 nothing is so insignificant that it may be neglected. 
 
 " You tell him," repeated Dircks. 
 
 " Very well, then, since you insist," said Vivian. 
 "I will be as brief as may be. Here is the matter in 
 a nutshell : Mr. Dircks is about to purchase Manhat 
 tan, and he Avishes to know if you are free to accept 
 the position of editor ?" 
 
 The young man was taken wholly by surprise. 
 " Yes," he answered, at last. " Yes, I think that 
 Carington & Company would release me in fact, the 
 work is so far advanced now that they can finish it in 
 the office." 
 
 "Then you are willing to edit Manhattan, if Mr. 
 Dircks buys the paper ?" Vivian asked. 
 
 Sartain instantly thought of Esther and of the in 
 timacy likely to thicken between him and her father if 
 he joined the staff of a paper Mr. Dircks owned. 
 
 " Oh, certainly," he answered ; " certainly, I shall be 
 very glad to help. Who is to be the editor-in-chief ?" 
 
 " You are," Vivian responded. 
 
 " I ?" cried Sartain, in great surprise. " Oh, I didn t 
 suppose you meant that !" 
 
 " Mr. Dircks approves of the views he has heard you 
 expound in regard to the proper management of a 
 weekly review to be written by New-Yorkers for New- 
 Yorkers," said the host, " and he wishes to provide you 
 with an opportunity to convert your theories into prac 
 tice."
 
 176 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 Sartain looked at Dircks, whose eyes had been upon 
 him since he entered the room. 
 
 " By New-Yorkers for New-Yorkers ?" the young 
 man repeated. Doesn t that let me out ? I m either 
 a Ehode-Islander or a Kansan, I suppose." 
 
 " You have been here now for four months is it 
 not ?" Vivian asked. " That is quite time enough to 
 make a New-Yorker out of a Kansan Ehode-Islander. 
 When you have lived here longer you will know that 
 all New-Yorkers have come from somewhere else. The 
 New-Yorkers who were born in New York have either 
 gone West to earn their living, or else they have gone 
 to Europe to live on their incomes." 
 
 " But do you think that I know enough about New 
 York to edit a paper intended specially for New-York 
 ers ?" objected Sartain. 
 
 "You know more about it than you did last year," 
 Vivian responded. " And you thought you knew 
 enough then to attempt a novel of New York life, 
 did you not ?" 
 
 Sartain admitted, with a little constraint, that he 
 supposed he was better acquainted with New York now 
 than he was when he started in to write Dust and 
 Ashes. 
 
 " The confession of ignorance is the beginning of 
 knowledge," declared Vivian, smiling at his own sen- 
 tentiousness. "Did I ever tell you what Pius IX. used 
 to say to the foreigners who were presented to him ?" 
 
 " You never did," the young man responded, eager 
 ly ; "and I have been meaning to ask you." 
 
 " Pius IX. was a very shrewd old man," Vivian con 
 tinued, "and when he asked the visitor, How long 
 have you been in Rome ? if the answer was a fort-
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 177 
 
 night or a month/ the Pope would say, I suppose 
 yon have now seen nearly everything. If the visitor 
 replied that he had been in Rome a year, then Pius 
 would respond, I suppose you are beginning to find 
 your way about the city. But if the visitor declared 
 that he had been there two or three years, then the 
 Pope would smile and say, I suppose you have dis 
 covered by this time that you never will see the half 
 of the things Rome has to show." 
 
 Sartain laughed with appreciation of this, and con 
 fessed at once that he saw the personal application of 
 the anecdote. 
 
 " When you came to me from the West four months 
 ago," the host returned, " and sat in that chair and 
 told me about the novel of New York life you have 
 been writing out there in Kansas, on the strength of a 
 chance visit or two to the city, I thought that you 
 were like the Pope s visitor who had been in Rome a 
 few days only. Now I am inclined to think that you 
 have been promoted to the more advanced class ; but 
 it is only when you have lived here, as I have, for forty 
 years, that you will discover the hopelessness of trying 
 to know the whole city the Five Points as well as 
 Fifth Avenue, Little Italy as well as Wall Street." 
 
 "New York is headquarters!" broke in Dircks, 
 speaking for the first time since the conversation be 
 gan. "That s why I want a paper here to talk right 
 out in meeting." 
 
 This brought the discussion back to its starting- 
 point. " Here is the situation," Vivian explained, be 
 ginning again : "Mr. Dircks proposes to buy Manhattan^ 
 if you will edit it. He is a reformer, as you are. You 
 
 and he think alike on certain of the important ques- 
 12
 
 178 A CONFIDENT TO-MOEROW 
 
 tions of the day. You both believe that society can 
 be improved immediately by legislation 
 
 " Don t you ?" interrupted the young man. 
 
 " I do and I do not," answered the elder. "A law 
 far in advance of public opinion on any subject is 
 likely to do more harm than good. If you want your 
 ideas to prevail, you must first educate public opinion, 
 stimulate it in every way ; and as soon as the majority 
 feels about the question as you do, the victory is won, 
 and mere legislation is easy, for all that is needed then 
 is to codify public opinion. If Mr. Dircks wishes to 
 shift the burdens of the worthy poor upon the shoul 
 ders of the idle rich, the advocacy of special remedies 
 like the single-tax or the income-tax or the inheritance- 
 tax, or all of them, will not be so efficacious as the 
 creation of a sentiment abroad among the people that 
 gross inequalities of wealth are wrong in themselves and 
 dangerous to the republic. When the existence of the 
 evil is generally admitted, it will be simple enough to 
 apply a remedy." 
 
 "That s it," Dircks broke in again ; " it s the men 
 out of work and wanting work, while the trusts are 
 shutting down that s what we ve got to show up." 
 
 Sartain thought it best to file an objection here. 
 " Of course, there are lots of evils to be attacked ; but 
 do you think that a merely aggressive paper is likely 
 to do as much good as one that can praise as well as 
 find fault ? It has always seemed to me that the way 
 to make the world better is to tell people it is getting 
 better, and to prove it to them ; to encourage them and 
 not to discourage them ; to inspire hope and confi 
 dence and energy to fight a good fight, with a certain 
 victory in the distance."
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 179 
 
 "What is most to be avoided," responded Vivian, 
 " is the tone of contempt which marks so%mch of the 
 aggressive writing of our time. Hatred may be a 
 force, perhaps, bnt certainly contempt is not. That 
 is the weakness of a paper as brilliant as the Wall Street 
 Standard Gillingham cannot help expressing his con 
 tempt for everybody who is not as clever as he is." 
 
 "I told him what I thought of him," said Dircks, 
 emphatically. " I wouldn t trust him as far as I could 
 sling a bull by the tail." 
 
 " Then what Mr. Dircks really wants is a hopeful 
 paper, which shall point out how certain abuses stand 
 in the way of progress," Sartain suggested. "Man 
 hattan is to take advanced ground on all matters of 
 reform, but it is not to be a shrieking protest against 
 the present order of society. It ought to be a non- 
 partisan, I should say not neutral, but bound to no 
 party, ready to take sides on any question according 
 to the principle of the thing, and not influenced by 
 the effect of the proposal upon the fortunes of any 
 political organization." 
 
 "That s it," Dircks confirmed, "not wearing any 
 body s uniform, but in the thick of the fighting al- 
 ways." 
 
 " So much for the politics, then," said the future 
 editor ; "what about the rest of the paper ?" 
 
 " The rest of the paper is to remain very much Avhat 
 it is now, but to be better done," Vivian answered. 
 " The scheme on which it was started is excellent ; it 
 is the execution which has been inadequate hitherto. 
 Mr. Dircks wants to reach the most intelligent classes 
 of the community, believing these to be the most in 
 fluential. He expects you to make Manhattan so good
 
 180 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 that every man of cultivation in the city will have to 
 read it in self-defence. He hopes you will be able to 
 get the best critics of the country to write for it, the 
 best critics of literature and of the drama, of science 
 and of the fine arts." 
 
 "They talk about the plain people/ " Dircks in 
 terjected. "It s them I m after. But I don t think 
 anything is too good for the plain people. What s too 
 good for them ain t good enough for me." 
 
 " I think I begin to see what you want/ Sartain 
 said, modestly. Manhattan, a Metropolitan Review, 
 the paper written by New-Yorkers for New-Yorkers. 
 I see it in my mind s eye as it ought to be. But 
 whether it can ever be made to materialize, I don t 
 know. If you think I can do it, I m ready to try ; 
 and I ll do what I can. One thing I d like to ask. 
 Am I to have full control or must I consult Mr. 
 Dircks about everything ? In other words, am I to 
 be an office-editor only or the editor-in-chief ? If I 
 take the responsibility, I think I ought to have the 
 power, don t you ?" 
 
 Vivian looked towards Dircks for an answer to this 
 question. 
 
 "I buy the paper and you run it/ said the old man, 
 thus appealed to. " I ve heard yon talk ; I know 
 what you think about things, and that s what I want 
 you should say." 
 
 "I am to have both the power and the responsi 
 bility ?" the young man returned. "Then all I can 
 say is, that I will do my very best to make a paper 
 that will be satisfactory to you." 
 
 " When shall you know whether they will sell out to 
 you or not ?" asked Vivian.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 181 
 
 "The dnde that is tired of losing money on it is to 
 write me Tuesday/ answered Dircks. " I made an 
 offer, and I told him it was yes or no. He ll take it. 
 I sized him up." 
 
 "If he accepts your proposition," Vivian inquired, 
 " how soon can you pay the purchase-money and take 
 possession ?" 
 
 " I got the money now," said Dircks. 
 
 " It ll take money to run the paper, and lots of it, 
 too, if it s to be well done," said Sartain, looking at 
 Dircks, who was following every word. 
 
 But the old man repeated, "I got the money." 
 
 "Then that s all right," Sartain returned. "We 
 must make the best show we can without wasting too 
 much. I know just the man for a publisher, and I 
 think a paper needs a publisher even more than it 
 does an editor. I don t believe it s so very hard to 
 make an interesting paper that people 11 want to read; 
 but it isn t going to be easy to make them find that 
 out, and it s hard to fill it up with ads. at the right 
 price. There was a man in the office in Topeka who 
 had just the gumption for that work." 
 
 "You write him to-night," said Dircks. 
 
 "I ll do it," replied Sartain. "Now, about special 
 features ? We ll have a short story every week, of 
 course, just as they do now. What about a serial ? 
 Where are we to find a good American novel to take 
 its place something that has some relation to real 
 life and to mankind as we know it nowadays?" 
 
 This question was addressed rather to Vivian, who 
 made no response, however. Then Sartain directly 
 asked him if he had not a novel that Manhattan could 
 print as a serial.
 
 182 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 " Thank you/ the elder novelist answered. "The 
 story I am finishing now is promised to the Arctic; 
 and I doubt if I even begin another before we return 
 from Europe late in the fall." 
 
 " What are we to do ?" asked Sartain. 
 
 "Why do you not print your own novel of N"ew 
 York?" Vivian inquired; "the one you were telling 
 me about Dust and Ashes, isn t it ?" 
 
 " Oh, I m not at all satisfied with that," cried the 
 younger novelist. " I ve been trying to revise it ; and 
 I m afraid I d better give it up for a bad job." 
 
 "You may spoil it," said Vivian, kindly; "and if 
 you wait until you are satisfied with your work, it is 
 quite possible that you will die before you have pub 
 lished anything. Bring me Dust and Ashes, and I 
 will see whether or not you need rend your garments 
 also." 
 
 "That s very good of you," Sartain responded, grate 
 fully; it seemed to him that fortune was strangely 
 kind to him all at once. 
 
 After a few words more the discussion came to an 
 end. Vivian asked his guests to walk into the front 
 room and have a cup of tea. Dircks declined; he had 
 an engagement. After helping the old man with his 
 overcoat, and begging to be remembered to his daugh 
 ter, Sartain passed into the drawing-room with Vivian. 
 
 The young man had followed his host along the dim 
 corridor, feeling as though he were walking on air. 
 The future was smiling on him. The dream of his 
 youth was about to come true. His castles in the air 
 were settling themselves solidly down on the rocky 
 foundations of reality. He seemed to have before him 
 now a chance such as was offered to few men as young
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 183 
 
 as he ; and ho was resolved to seize the opportunity 
 and to make the most of it. lie was not yet twenty- 
 six, and he was to have absolute control of a New York 
 weekly ; and this paper was to be owned by the father 
 of the girl he loved an association certain to give 
 him many a chance of seeing her. With a smile that 
 almost broke into a laugh, he recalled a few of the 
 numberless instances in literature where the good ap 
 prentice had married his master s daughter. 
 
 His head reeled with his sudden elation, and he 
 could have danced into the drawing-room where Mr. 
 Vivian s three daughters were. When he entered he 
 checked himself and tried to regain his calmness. But 
 his fancies were still whirling. He saw that Johnny was 
 seated at the tea-table in one corner. She was a good 
 fellow, Johnny was ; and in sheer exuberance of joy 
 the young man would have liked to go over and hug 
 her. He was able to restrain himself and to take the 
 chair she indicated to him after they had shaken hands. 
 
 She offered him a cup of tea, and when he took 
 the cup from her his hand trembled, and he almost 
 spilled the liquid in the lap of her tight-fitting cloth 
 dress. Shy as he was generally, he wished now that 
 he was alone with this friendly girl, and that he might 
 bid her rejoice with him in the good fortune, bringing 
 him close to the woman he loved. 
 
 Mr. Vivian came over to the tea-table and stood by 
 Sartain s chair. "May I not have a cup of tea, too ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " You poor dear !" his eldest daughter returned. 
 " I forgot all about you. And Mr. Dircks, too won t 
 he have some ?" 
 
 " Dircks would not wait," explained Vivian.
 
 184 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 And Sartain added, "We had settled everything be 
 fore he went." 
 
 " Then he will let Esther go with us ?" Johnny 
 went on, as she handed a cup to her father. 
 
 Sartain looked at her in silent surprise. There had 
 been no talk of Esther s going anywhere with anybody. 
 
 "I had a little chat with him before Sartain joined 
 us," said Vivian, "and he is willing to give his con 
 sent. He does not wish to be separated from his 
 daughter for so long a period as six months and that 
 is not to be wondered at. But he sees that she is 
 worn with her care of her grandmother, and he recog 
 nizes that she needs change of scene. He is ready to 
 trust her with us." 
 
 " I should think he could !" cried Johnny. " I 
 don t know which of us loves her most. He can be 
 sure we ll all take the best of care of her." 
 
 "Is is Miss Esther going anywhere with you?" 
 Sartain managed to ask at last. 
 
 "Why, don t you know ?" she returned. "We are 
 all off to Europe early in April, to be gone till October, 
 and we want to take Esther with us." 
 
 " To Europe ?" Sartain repeated. " For six months?" 
 
 "It ought to benefit the child," said Vivian, "and I 
 think we can make her have a good time." 
 
 In the presence of Johnny s father the young man 
 did not venture to say anything more. But his heart 
 sank, and his joy was withered in an instant. He 
 looked at Johnny pitifully, and was surprised to see 
 upon her face the same enigmatical expression he had 
 seen there more than once before. This time he 
 thought that there was a vague suggestion in it of de 
 fiance or of bravado, he did not know which.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 185 
 
 " I told Adams we thought of making a little trip to 
 see the castles of Touraine," continued Vivian, "and 
 he says that, if we do, he will run down and join us." 
 
 "It will be great fun to have Madams with us," 
 Johnny agreed, with a sudden light in her eye as though 
 this were news she had not expected. 
 
 Sartain set his cup down almost untasted. Two or 
 three minutes later he was out in the open air, trying 
 to readjust himself to this unforeseen turn of events. 
 
 He took a long walk in Central Park, and he reached 
 the boarding-house a little late for the cold supper 
 which was served there every Sunday at half-past six.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 AFTER his supper the author of Dust and Ashes 
 took the manuscript of that novel out of the trunk 
 where he had packed it away, and read it Avith the 
 utmost care. His work on A Wolf at the Door had put 
 a gulf between him and the earlier story ; and he was 
 now able to survey his novel with detachment and a 
 sense of perspective. He liked it better than he had 
 hoped ; it had something in it, after all ; the local color 
 was not always applied in the right place, but this 
 was not beyond remedy. On the whole, and with all 
 its faults, more obvious to him now than ever before, 
 Dust and Ashes seemed to its author worthy of publi 
 cation. 
 
 He was anxious to learn what Vivian would think of 
 it ; and on Monday morning, before going to the office 
 of Carington & Company, he went up to Central Park 
 and delivered the manuscript to the white -capped 
 maid. 
 
 He began to make plans for the conduct of Man 
 hattan. He wrote a tentative letter to the Topeka 
 friend whom he had in view as the proper publisher 
 of the journal he was to edit. He went to the Fried 
 Cat on Monday to dine, and he renewed his acquaint 
 ance with Shields and Quinn, and was introduced to 
 half a dozen other newspaper workers, to whom he
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 187 
 
 said nothing about the new Manhattan, but from whom 
 he extracted not a little information about the prices 
 paid in New York for literary work and about the 
 men who had special knowledge on various subjects. 
 He came to the conclusion that Shields himself could 
 be made useful in a variety of ways, and Jerry Quinn 
 also. 
 
 On Thursday, Sartain received a brief note from 
 Vivian, asking if he could make it convenient to call 
 Saturday afternoon about four. 
 
 Promptly at the hour named the young man pre 
 sented himself, and was shown at once into Mr. Viv 
 ian s library. The manuscript of his novel was on the 
 table. 
 
 "I have finished it, and I like it," said the host at 
 once. " It interested me, and that is the prime qual 
 ity. What I like most about it is its youthfulness, its 
 freshness, its fervor, its ardor, its hearty confidence in 
 the future, its belief that there is a good time coming, 
 and coming very soon." 
 
 " I suppose that s what I do believe," the author re 
 sponded, " but I didn t know I d put it in the book." 
 
 "Can we keep anything out of a book that is in 
 us ?" asked Vivian. " Is it not rather true that we 
 cannot put anything into a book except ourselves 
 what we know, what we have seen, what we have felt, 
 what we have thought, and, above all, what we are ? 
 I suppose the real reason why I like your book is that 
 I like you and I find you in it." 
 
 " If only those like the book who know me and like 
 me, I don t think I can count on a very large sale," 
 the young man responded, flushing with the pleasure 
 of hearing the other express a kindly feeling for him.
 
 188 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 " I suppose the fellows who don t like me will find 
 lots to pick at/ 
 
 "Yes," Vivian said, honestly. "The book abounds 
 in faults but most of them are the result of inex 
 perience, perhaps all of them. It has the advantages 
 of your youth, and it has also the disadvantages. It 
 is immature, of course." 
 
 " Then you would not advise me to use it as a serial 
 in Manhattan 9" Sartain asked, sorrowfully. 
 
 "But I should !" cried Vivian. "And I would not 
 try to smooth it out any more. Let it go as it is to 
 touch it now is to risk the danger of ruining it. But 
 if I may make a suggestion, I would not sign it. Do 
 you remember Jerrold s jibe against the young author 
 who took down his shutters before he had anything 
 to put in the shop-windows ? Of course, that does 
 not apply to you ; but it has a kernel of wisdom. If I 
 were you I would sign Dust and Ashes with a pen- 
 name. If it hits the public taste, you can always dis 
 close your identity." 
 
 " Isn t that a little cowardly ?" the young author 
 asked. 
 
 " It is what Dickens did, and Thackeray and George 
 Eliot," replied the elder. "It comports with the rules 
 of the courts, that no man is bound to criminate him 
 self." 
 
 While they were discussing this there was a rap at 
 the door and the maid ushered in Dircks. The old 
 man entered the room less sluggish in his movements 
 than usual. 
 
 "Well ?" said Vivian, as they shook hands. 
 
 "I bought it," Dircks answered, and Sartain s heart 
 leaped ; he was to be the editor of Manhattan, after all.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 189 
 
 " When do you take possession ?" asked the host. 
 
 "They said they d got contracts to fill/ Dircks re 
 sponded, " and they want two weeks more. That 11 be 
 on the 20th." 
 
 "If I m going to run the paper/ said Sartain, "I 
 shall be very glad of a fortnight to get ready in. I 
 heard from Truax this morning he s the man I think 
 would be the best publisher. He s out of a job now." 
 
 "When is he coming here ?" Dircks responded. 
 
 " He can come at once, if you engage him/ was 
 Sartain s answer. 
 
 "You telegraph him to-night/ returned the old 
 man. " There ain t no time to lose." 
 
 Then Mr. Vivian rose to his feet and interrupted 
 them. " You two have various little matters of busi 
 ness to settle sooner or later. Why not do this now ? 
 I will leave you alone here, and when all is arranged 
 you can join us in the front room." With that he left 
 them. 
 
 The future editor of Manhattan and the future 
 owner came to terms rapidly. The publisher and the 
 editor were each to have a small weekly salary, with a 
 percentage of the profits, whenever there should be 
 any. Until after the paper paid expenses the editor s 
 own contributions were to be gratuitous ; he did not 
 even ask to be remunerated for Dust and Ashes, the 
 serial publication of which he intended to begin within 
 a month after they should acquire control. He ex 
 pected to Avrite most of the political matter himself, 
 and much of the literary criticism. Probably there 
 would be only five or six or seven pages to fill with 
 outside contributions. He proposed to have these 
 signed, as far as possible, so that the opinions ex-
 
 190 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 pressed might be warranted by the writers names. 
 To do this would require about a hundred dollars a 
 week ; and he thought, also, that the publisher should 
 have an allowance of the same amount, to be spent in 
 judicious advertising. 
 
 Dircks listened attentively as Sartain expounded 
 these views, and he nodded whenever the other paused 
 after making a point. The young man discovered that 
 Dircks was far more inarticulate than he, and this em 
 boldened him to talk freely. His own self-conscious 
 ness left him when he was aware that the man he was 
 addressing was even shyer. 
 
 When he had made an end, all that Dircks responded 
 was, " That s right. I got the money. You make the 
 paper. You tell the truth in it, and give it to em hot 
 and heavy ! I pay the bill." 
 
 Then they went forward to the drawing-room, and 
 found Esther near the centre window, talking to Mr. 
 Vivian. Sartain saw that she looked almost as worn 
 and wan as when she first returned from Wisconsin. 
 
 Johnny came forward and asked Mr. Dircks whether 
 Esther would be ready to sail with them the first week 
 in April. Sartain s heart sank, as it did always when 
 he thought of her departure. Despite Johnny s efforts 
 to draw him into the conversation, he stood apart for 
 a few minutes, watching Esther and Vivian. The more 
 closely he observed them the more convinced he be 
 came, not only that Esther did not suspect the force 
 of the liking entertained for her by the father of her 
 two school-fellows, but also that Vivian himself did not 
 understand his own feelings. Sartaiu almost laughed 
 aloud when the humor of the situation dawned upon 
 him, that here before him was a man in love with a
 
 A CONFIDENT BfcrMORROW 191 
 
 pretty girl, and the man did not suspect it himself 
 and this unsuspecting lover was the author of novels 
 highly commended for their delicate analysis of subtle 
 emotion. 
 
 Then, at last, Esther felt the force of his gaze, and 
 turned. When she saw him she smiled, and there 
 came a faint flush on her cheeks. Mr. Vivian s eyes 
 followed hers, and in a few seconds Esther was stand 
 ing by her father s side chatting with Sartain, while 
 the host was asking the old man if their business talk 
 had been satisfactory. Johnny sat silent, looking in 
 tently from Esther to Sartain. The young man was 
 a little uncomfortable under this inspection he did 
 not know why. 
 
 He was not sorry when Dircks broke up the con 
 versation by telling Esther it was time for them to go. 
 Sartain took leave of the Vivians at the same moment, 
 again thanking the elder novelist for his kindness in 
 reading Duxt and AsJiex. 
 
 In the Broadway car, going down, Dircks was even 
 more taciturn than usual. Apparently absorbed in his 
 own thoughts, he left the young people to themselves. 
 It was a windy March day, and there was little warmth 
 in the late sunshine, but it lighted the gold of her 
 hair and brought out the paleness of her complexion. 
 Loath as Sartain was to have her go to Europe, he saw 
 that she needed rest and change ; and he did not doubt 
 that travel would be good for her. Her slight figure 
 seemed to him even more fragile than ever. The Sat 
 urday, afternoon throng was thick on the sidewalks, 
 and the car itself filled rapidly as it passed the thea 
 tres where the matinees were just concluded, and there 
 was no lack of handsome women in all the glow of
 
 192 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 health. But no other girl had the exquisite grace he 
 found in her, and no other radiated the same ineffable 
 fascination. 
 
 He wanted to ask her many questions about herself, 
 and yet he did not know where to begin. While he 
 was hesitating she turned and said with a delicious 
 smile, "So father has bought his paper and you are to 
 edit it for him. Now I want you to promise me one 
 thing." 
 
 He glowed with pleasure at this appeal as he an 
 swered that he would be delighted to do anything he 
 could for her. 
 
 "You will not let father get too excited/ she ex 
 plained. 
 
 " Too excited ?" he echoed, in surprise. 
 
 "I know he must seem very quiet to you," she con 
 tinued. "But he isn t, really that is, not all the time. 
 Sometimes, when he is very much interested in any 
 thing, he gets all wrought up just as he did at the 
 Contemporary that night, you remember ? And that 
 isn t good for him, is it ? Besides, I never know what 
 he will do when he is excited." 
 
 Sartain told her that he did not see any probable 
 cause of undue emotion in Mr. Dircks s ownership of 
 Manhattan. 
 
 " I do not know about that," the girl returned ; 
 " isn t it to be a political paper ? Are you not going to 
 try to help change society ? That s what father says." 
 
 "Yes," he answered. "We are going to try to 
 make the world better but we don t expect to do it 
 overnight, you know." 
 
 "Are you sure father doesn t ?" was her shrewd 
 question.
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 193 
 
 "I m not young enough to believe that any reform 
 is achieved in a hurry," he responded; "and your 
 father is older than I." 
 
 "That s all very well/" she said, "but you don t 
 know father as well as I do. Father doesn t like going 
 slow." 
 
 Then he set out to explain to her just what it was 
 he hoped to accomplish with the weekly after they had 
 made it so interesting that people would have to buy 
 it. He spread out his hopes before her, and his lofty 
 desires ; he expounded the reasons for the faith that 
 was in him that the world could be made better ; he 
 etched the evils he meant to attack and to destroy ; he 
 caressed the ideal of good that he was determined to 
 turn into a reality. 
 
 His enthusiasm was contagious, and as they were 
 leaving the car at Seventeenth Street on their way to 
 Stuyvesant Square, she cried, " How interesting it 
 must be to be a man and to go into the world and do 
 things ! I don t know that I ever wished to be a man 
 it seems to me ever so much nicer to be a girl 
 but yon almost make me think that a man is more 
 useful." 
 
 This turned the current of their talk from Man 
 hattan to themselves, or, rather, to a discussion of 
 the relative importance of man and woman, in which 
 they each used themselves as types. This debate car 
 ried them happily to the door of the house where she 
 lived. 
 
 Dircks had walked on the other side of his daughter, 
 taking no part in the talk. Now he roused himself 
 from his revery. 
 
 "You send that telegram to-night," he said. 
 
 13
 
 194 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 " That telegram ?" Sartain replied. " Oh, to Truax !" 
 
 "Yes, Truax was his name," Dircks answered. 
 
 "You tell him to get here as soon as he can. We 
 
 can t begin too soon if we want to make the rich man 
 
 sorry he was born."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 IXTO the ensuing four weeks were compacted more 
 hard work, both mental and physical, and more stress 
 and excitement than had been contained in any previ 
 ous month of Sartain s existence, for in them he got 
 out two numbers of Manhattan and he saw Esther 
 Dircks off for Europe. 
 
 On Monday Truax arrived, a wizened young man, 
 who was a New-Yorker by birth and who was delighted 
 to get back to New York. 
 
 " That s the right idea, to have signed articles," he 
 declared, " and get specialists to write em, too. The 
 public likes to be instructed by a man who really 
 knows about a thing. Have as much as you can writ 
 ten outside the office, too ; that s the only way you can 
 get variety. And don t have anything to do with any 
 fellow who is recommended to you as an all-round 
 newspaper -man he s absolutely the most ignorant 
 creature in the world. He doesn t know anything at 
 all, except what he has read in the papers." 
 
 In other ways the advice of Truax was excellent. 
 "If I were you, I d have all the short stories about 
 New York," he declared. " You pass the word around 
 Park Row that you want the kind of local sketch that 
 gets into the Sunday papers, that you will let the 
 writers sign, and that you ll pay magazine prices, and
 
 196 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 you can have your pick and get the best. I d call that 
 department Tales of the Town." 
 
 In the course of the week Sartain took Truax to the 
 Fried Cat, and there they met half a dozen young 
 men, all eager to contribute to the new Manhattan. 
 Adams dropped in also, and was persuaded to write a 
 signed criticism of the spring exhibitions. 
 
 " All right," said the artist, " if you want me to do 
 the Academy and the Artists, I ll do them. But if 
 you expect me to scorch up and down, and knock the 
 stuffing out of some of those old figure-heads, you ll 
 get left, that s all. I shall pick out the half-dozen 
 best things and I ll praise those, if you like. I ll tell 
 the public just why these things are good. But you ll 
 be disappointed if you want spicy writing. I m not 
 going to jump on my competitors in business, am I ? 
 I can afford to praise them at least, I ll risk it ; but 
 I m certain sure I can t afford to abuse them." 
 
 Adams asked various questions about the paper, and 
 dropped valuable hints. 
 
 " I hope you re not going to have a Woman s Col 
 umn, with portraits of the Third Vice-president pro 
 tern, of the Harlem Ladies Debating Club," said he. 
 " There s only one thing more painful to me than a 
 Woman s Column, and that s Household Hints, with 
 practical articles on How to Make a Folding-bed out 
 of a Soap-box. " ; 
 
 Sartain assured him that there was nothing of that 
 sort in Manhattan, but that he hoped to be able to 
 interest the women of New York. 
 
 Then you must go for them, hot and heavy," re 
 turned Adams. " Say they are a Reversion to the 
 Primitive Type. They like to be scolded by a man
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 197 
 
 they like nothing better. Don t you remember those 
 Girl-of-the-Period papers, how they hit homeland how 
 the women devoured them ? And, by-the-way, I can 
 give you a bully title for a Girl-of-the-Period pa 
 per. I was in a big department-store this afternoon; 
 they were rebuilding part of it, and I suppose that s 
 why I saw a sign on a door, Temporary Ladies Dress 
 ing-room. I laughed right out, and the floor- walker 
 looked at me sorrowfully. But I couldn t help it I 
 know such lots of women who are only temporary 
 ladies ; don t you ?" 
 
 Although lightness of touch was not Sartain s most 
 obvious characteristic, he was quick enough to see 
 that an amusing little essay might be written up to a 
 title like " Temporary Ladies." He thanked Adams 
 for the suggestion, and asked for more. 
 
 Til get out a search-warrant for my stray ideas," 
 Adams responded ; "and you shall have any more that 
 are worth while. I ll help you out, if I can. I think 
 you ve got hold of a big thing. There are four millions 
 of people right around us here in New York. Now if 
 you can make a paper for them, first of all, you ll get 
 all the circulation you want. And then the other 
 sixty-six millions in the rest of the United States are 
 sitting up nights to find out all about our goings-on 
 here. What s interesting here in New York is interest 
 ing all over the United States." 
 
 Another casual remark of Adams was to the effect 
 that very few of the people living in New York knew 
 anything at all about its local history. 
 
 Sartain laughingly admitted that he himself was 
 as ignorant as any one on this point. The next day 
 he went to the library and looked up the books in
 
 108 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 which the history of the city was set forth. To his 
 surprise he discovered that the annals of New York 
 were both picturesque and interesting. The notes 
 taken during that first day s work on the history of 
 New York suggested to him that it would be attrac 
 tive to publish in Manhattan a series of anecdotic 
 papers on points of interest in the city the Battery, 
 the City Hall Park, Union Square, Central Park, and 
 the Riverside Drive. 
 
 These notes also helped in preparing the opening 
 article in the first number he edited. In this rather 
 high-strung essay Sartain declared that New York was 
 not only the gateway of all America, the emporium of 
 a republican empire, the caravansary of a continent, 
 it was also the true cosmopolis, the real world-city, 
 with an honorable past and a triumphant future. The 
 struggle visible in the streets to-day was mightier than 
 any battle of any ancient war, and it was worthier of 
 epic treatment. The plume of steam that waved from 
 the top of every tall building was like the white feather 
 of Henry of Navarre ; it was to be seen in the midst of 
 the mellay only, in the thickest of the tussle. Then 
 he pointed his moral to the effect that we New-York 
 ers ought to take pride in our noble town, and that 
 we ought to be unceasing in our efforts to improve it 
 by bettering the conditions of life for the laborer, by 
 making the city clean and healthy, and by adminis 
 tering its imperial revenues honestly and judiciously. 
 
 When Vivian saw Sartain, after the appearance of 
 the number of Manhattan containing this resonant 
 eulogy of the city, he said, smiling : " I think you said 
 as much for New York as you very well could. But 
 you must not overdo it. Excess of pride always in-
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 199 
 
 vites a protest. You remember what Lowell wrote in 
 a private letter once, thirty or forty years ago ? That 
 New York was not Paris, but rather plaster of Paris 
 a bad cast of a Bernini original. That is as far be 
 low the truth, I think, as your laudation overtops it." 
 
 The second number was very much better, so the 
 editor thought. He began in it to publish Dust and 
 Axhen as a serial, signing it, not with his own name, 
 but with "S. Francis," a pseudonym that suggested 
 its real author to those who knew. 
 
 This second number appeared on the first Thursday 
 in April, the morning when the Vivians were to sail 
 for Europe, carrying Esther away with them, and the 
 editor took a copy of Manhattan in his pocket when 
 he went to the dock to see his friends off. 
 
 During the month of Esther s preparation for her 
 European trip, Sartain had done his best to see as 
 much of her as he could, but fortune had not favored 
 him. He had gone to the Vivians every Saturday 
 afternoon in the hope of meeting her, but she was 
 there only once, and then the twins had monopolized 
 her. He had called in Stuyvesant Square every Sunday 
 afternoon, but once she was out, and once her father 
 had insisted on his discussion of certain details of pub 
 lishing, and once there were other callers to whom she 
 had to devote herself. He would have called in the 
 evening, but he had received somehow an impression 
 that Dircks liked then to monopolize his daughter s 
 society. 
 
 One afternoon there was, and only one, when he had 
 her all to himself for nearly an hour ; they talked 
 about her travels in Europe, and about his labors on 
 Manhattan, and chiefly about themselves ; and Sar-
 
 200 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 tain had returned to his boarding-house with joy in 
 his heart that he had made another great advance in 
 intimacy, only to find on the Saturday following, when 
 he caught a glimpse of her at the Vivians , that she 
 had gone back to her earlier attitude of remote friend 
 liness. 
 
 The day came all too swiftly when she was to de 
 part, and Sartain awaked with a dull ache in his heart 
 and with an insistent depression. The ship was to 
 start at eleven, and Sartain arrived on the pier nearly 
 an hour earlier, to find the shed crowded with car 
 riages, express-wagons, and baggage-carts. The decks 
 were thronged also, and the gangways were almost im 
 passable. 
 
 It was the first time that he had ever set foot on a 
 great ocean - steamer ; and it was with keen interest 
 that he noted all he saw about him the huge boat 
 itself, the active attendants, the passengers of all sorts, 
 the friends who had come down to bid them farewell. 
 He did not know where to look for Esther. He walked 
 through the broad dining -saloon, and at one end of 
 the central table he saw half a dozen baskets of flowers 
 with dangling cards, revealing that they had been sent 
 to one or another of Mr. Vivian s three daughters. 
 This, then, was the captain s table Sartain had heard 
 them talk about. On it he also found the basket of 
 fruit, hot-house grapes, and California pears that he 
 had ordered for Esther. Here was where they were to 
 sit, but they themselves were not here. 
 
 He made his way to the spar-deck with difficulty, 
 and there he perceived the Vivians. The twins were 
 surrounded by a group of brilliantly dressed girls and 
 of faultlessly attired young men, all talking at once
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 201 
 
 and laughing abundantly. Adams was standing on 
 one side with Johnny and her father. Sartain handed 
 Mr. Vivian a copy of the new number of Manhattan. 
 
 " Do you recommend it as a panacea for sea-sick 
 ness ?" asked Adams. " If it really is efficacious, you 
 can get a large circulation in less than no time." 
 
 " Why does not Esther come up on deck ?" asked 
 Vivian. 
 
 " I don t know, I m sure/ his daughter answered. 
 " I left her with. her bag nearly unpacked. I suppose 
 she is having a few last words with her father down 
 there." 
 
 With the inconsistency excusable on an April day, 
 the clouds that had hung low early in the morning 
 had now all cleared away, and the sky was reflected 
 in the broad river almost unflecked. The sun shone 
 fiercely, and there was only an intermittent breeze 
 blowing in from Sandy Hook. Vivian took Sartain 
 forward to show the young man his own deck state 
 room. 
 
 They were gone for a few minutes only, and when 
 they returned they found Esther talking to Johnny 
 and Adams, while Dircks stood silent by her side. 
 
 While Mr. Vivian greeted Dircks, Sartain stepped 
 up to Esther, and in a moment more a movement of 
 the crowd that packed the deck had separated them 
 from the others. 
 
 She thanked him at once for the fruit, and said it 
 was so good of him to send it, and declared that she 
 was especially fond of grapes. He looked at her with 
 delight and sadness commingled ; it was a joy always 
 to be near her, to hear her voice, to gaze at her, to ad 
 mire the exquisite curve of her mouth, and her broad
 
 202 A COXFIDEXT TO-MORROW 
 
 brow with its straightly pencilled eyebrows; it was 
 sorrow to know that he could not have this happiness 
 again for the better part of a year. 
 
 So absorbed was he in these thoughts that he made 
 no response to her little speech of thanks until the 
 silence recalled him to himself, and then he broke out, 
 "I I m glad you like grapes. I I thought they 
 might be refreshing." 
 
 Sartain was stabbed by jealousy at the thought of 
 Vivian s having her under his wing for six long 
 months. In that time the elder novelist might find 
 out that he was in love with her, and he might be 
 able to persuade her to marry him. 
 
 " Miss Esther !" he broke in, abruptly, as this picture 
 arose before him ; and then, all at once, he recognized 
 the absurdity of his interference. 
 
 "Yes?" she answered, as though wondering a little 
 at his sudden warmth. 
 
 "Oh," he returned, shamefaced, "I I was only 
 going to ask if if you expect to be long in England ?" 
 
 "We are going straight to London," she returned, 
 "and I believe we are to stay there six weeks, or till 
 the beginning of June. Then we go to Paris for a 
 little while, and after that to Carlsbad. We expect to 
 be back in France early in August, and then we run 
 down to the castles on the Loire. Mr. Vivian hasn t 
 decided what we are to do after that, but we are to be 
 home about the first of October." 
 
 " Six months," said he ; " that s six long months." 
 
 " Yes," she returned, " we are not coming home for 
 six months." 
 
 He wanted to ask her if she really wished to go away 
 so long, but it seemed to him that this would be im-
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 203 
 
 pertinent. From her manner he had an impression 
 that she was sailing willingly enough and yet regret- 
 fully. 
 
 " It will be a change for you/ he said, " to go to all 
 those places and to do so many interesting things." 
 
 " I suppose it will," she answered, and then she 
 sighed gently, or Sartain thought she did. 
 
 " I hope you will come back ever so much stronger," 
 he continued. 
 
 " That s why I m going," she said, to get my 
 strength again." 
 
 " But you will enjoy it, too," he cried, answering 
 rather what he thought was her meaning. "I wish I 
 were going over now to see London and Paris, to tread 
 the streets Thackeray trod and Balzac." 
 
 ""\Viiy can t you run over for a few weeks ?" she 
 asked ; and then she answered her own question. 
 "But of course you can t. You must not leave the 
 paper." 
 
 "I must not leave the paper," he echoed. 
 
 "And you must not leave father, either," she re 
 turned, smiling. " Really, I think I am showing ex 
 traordinary confidence in you, Mr. Sartain, to trust fa 
 ther with you." 
 
 He thrilled deliciously at this assertion. "I didn t 
 know you expected me to take care of Mr. Dircks," he 
 began, "but I ll do it, since you wish it." 
 
 "I do wish it," she responded, earnestly. "I shall 
 be ever so much obliged to you if you will look after 
 him. I have always done it since mother died, and, 
 now I m going to leave him for the first time, I know 
 he ll be lonely. It seems very selfish of me to go, 
 doesn t it ? and I ve been ready to back out a dozen
 
 204 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 times this last fortnight. But I shall feel ever so much 
 safer if I know you are going to have him on your 
 mind, and to see that he doesn t get into trouble." 
 Then the mischievous smile which was one of her chief 
 fascinations came back. 
 
 "I ll do my best for him/ said Sartain, rejoicing 
 that she had given him a commission. 
 
 "Father s such a big baby in some things," she 
 went on, "and he needs somebody to look after him." 
 
 Sartain had given himself up to the pleasure of this 
 confidential conversation with the woman he loved, 
 and he had taken no heed of the flight of time. Now 
 a bell clanged repeatedly, and a steward passed along 
 the deck crying out, "Ashore all that s going !" 
 
 " Where s father ?" the girl asked, and Sartain in 
 stantly recognized his own selfishness in keeping for 
 himself the last few minutes of her company when 
 her father was parting with her for the first time. 
 
 In the reflux of the throng which began now to 
 thin out, Esther and Sartain were able soon to rejoin 
 the Vivians. The girl seized her father and began to 
 give him her final instructions in an eager whisper. 
 
 Vivian and Johnny, Adams and Sartain, stood on 
 one side while the male friends of the twins made their 
 adieus and the female friends began to exchange their 
 final kisses and embraces. 
 
 AVhen these young friends had withdrawn, leaving 
 them immense bunches of roses, Sartain and Adams 
 shook hands with all the Vivians in turn before Esther 
 and her father rejoined the group ; and then, while 
 Dircks had a final word with Mr. Vivian, Sartain stepped 
 aside and let Adams say good-bye to Esther first. 
 
 At last he held her hand in his for a moment. " I
 
 A COXFIDEXT TO-MOBBOW 205 
 
 hope you will have a good time," he said, " aiid come 
 back strong." 
 
 "Thank you," she answered. 
 
 "And I ll look after Mr. Dircks," he continued. 
 
 " Thank you for that, too," she returned, with a 
 smile, although he thought he saw a tear in her eye. 
 
 He walked to the gang-plank with Adams, leaving 
 Dircks alone with her at the side of the ship. 
 
 "If you want to see them off, you had best get a 
 good place at the end of the pier," suggested Adams. 
 
 Sartain waited till Dircks joined them, and then 
 they went down the shed and out upon the open space 
 near the river. Excited as the young man was by the 
 parting from Esther, he could not but take note of 
 the scenes on all sides of him, of the revelation of 
 character under the stress of impending separation ; 
 he could not but observe the mingled humor and pa 
 thos to be discovered at the sailing of a great ocean- 
 steamer. He saw that here was material for literary 
 use, and quite unconsciously he began to contrive how 
 he could utilize it in one of the unwritten chapters of 
 A Wolf at the Door. 
 
 Just in front of him were a score of young fellows, 
 decked with their college colors and making them 
 selves hoarse with their strident and staccato college 
 yell ; and to these violent demonstrations a youth in 
 the stern of the ship made suitable acknowledgment. 
 
 The boat began to back out slowly into the stream, 
 escorted by a pair of puffing tugs ; and soon the group 
 glided into view that Dircks and Sartain and Adams 
 were waiting to see. The twins were leaning against 
 the rail, and the full sunlight brought out the fiery 
 redness of their hair ; they held in their hands the
 
 206 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 gigantic bunches of roses, as full-blown as they were 
 themselves, and when they came opposite to the bois 
 terous group of men and girls who had come down 
 to bid them farewell they picked out one rose after 
 another and threw them over on the pier-head for the 
 young men to scramble for. 
 
 Esther stood between Johnny and Mr. Vivian. Sar- 
 tain guessed that she was exercising all the self-con 
 trol she had, trying not to weep under the gaze of the 
 father whom she was leaving for so long. Yet, do what 
 she would, a tear trembled from the lid and ran spark 
 ling down her cheek just as she was passing them. 
 Then Sartain saw Johnny clasp her with a protecting 
 arm. 
 
 The steamer slowly backed into the splendid river, 
 swung around and steamed away on its three-thousand- 
 mile voyage. 
 
 "\Vhen the boat was in mid-stream, and the faces of 
 those on board could no longer be made out, Adams 
 followed the example of the great majority and took 
 his departure. But Sartain remained with Dircks, 
 and they watched the boat dwindle down in the dis 
 tance till it was only a dark spot under the towering 
 figure of Liberty.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 IT was about the middle of April when Esther 
 Dircks went to Europe, and she did not return to 
 America until after the middle of October. There 
 were days during those six months when Sartain was 
 ready to declare that he had never known time to go 
 so slowly. He missed Esther intensely, and she was 
 rarely absent from his thoughts. But he was very 
 busy also, and his mind was so incessantly occupied 
 with Manhattan that it was not often he had leisure 
 to repine or to commiserate his own loneliness. 
 
 He kept a sharp watch for the news of the arrival 
 out of the boat which bore her away ; and he made a 
 careful calculation as to the day when her first letter 
 from England could reach her father. 
 
 When he guessed that the old man had received this, 
 he called to get Dircks s opinion on some point in the 
 management of Manhattan, and before the interview 
 was over he had extracted from her father most of the 
 contents of the hasty note she had written on the 
 morning they landed. He was glad to learn that the 
 voyage had been swift and smooth, and that she 
 thought the sea-air had done her good already, since 
 her appetite was rapidly returning. 
 
 Having given Sartain this much information, Dircks 
 went on to talk about his daughter, much to the sur-
 
 208 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 prise of the young man, who had hitherto found her 
 father slow of speech, not to say taciturn. It was 
 as though in her absence there was one subject about 
 which he must speak, at whatever cost to his habit 
 ual restraint. He told the man who loved her how 
 good she was to her father, how tolerant of his whims 
 and extravagances, how firm when his vagaries needed 
 to be checked, how loving always. It delighted Sar- 
 tain to hear her praised, and he drank in every word 
 greedily, agreeing with every statement her father 
 made. Thus was established the habit, on Dircks s 
 part, of reading his daughter s letters to Sartain as 
 soon as they were received ; and she wrote twice a 
 week regularly. 
 
 Nor was it from Dircks alone that the young man 
 got news of the woman he loved, for she was mentioned 
 frequently in the letters that Vivian wrote. As it hap 
 pened, a novel of Vivian s was published the day after 
 the author had gone away to Europe. For the number 
 of Manhattan which appeared on the morning that the 
 Vivians landed in England, Sartaiu wrote a signed re 
 view of this story, in which he expressed his high admi 
 ration of Vivian as a novelist. By return mail that is 
 to say, in less than three weeks there came a letter 
 from Vivian, written in his careful, copper-plate hand, 
 and with every sentence as neatly turned as though 
 it were intended for publication, thanking the young 
 editor for his. criticism and acknowledging its justice 
 both in the praise and the blame ; the former might be 
 overstrained, the latter was not, since the author was 
 well aware that it was the weak spot of the plot the 
 critic had put his finger on. 
 
 In that first letter Vivian went on to narrate their
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 209 
 
 doings in London, their having tea on the terrace of 
 the Houses of Parliament, their going to supper on the 
 stage of a famous theatre after the first night of a new 
 play, their dinners here and there ; and, incidentally, 
 Esther s name was written more than once, and at the 
 end Vivian bid Sartain tell her father that she was be 
 ing benefited by the trip, and that she was gaining 
 strength daily in consequence of the change of scene. 
 
 Here Sartain thought he saw the opportunity, and 
 he answered Vivian s letter at once, asking advice 
 about Manhattan, giving the latest bits of literary 
 gossip, and concluding by begging Vivian to assure 
 Miss Esther that her father was well, and that he was 
 keeping an eye on him. Thus, all through the sum 
 mer, Sartain managed to maintain communication with 
 Esther, through Vivian on one side and through Dircks 
 on the other. 
 
 In the meantime he was keen to see what impression 
 Dust and Ashes was making on the public, as it ap 
 peared week by week in the paper. He had not con 
 fessed his authorship to any one except Truax ; and 
 as the story was signed with the name of " S. Francis," 
 Frank Sartain was not giving himself away when he 
 asked Shields and Quinn and the other contributors 
 how they liked it. Not suspecting his personal inter 
 est in the question, they one and all confessed that 
 they were not reading it they never did read serials. 
 
 "I don t want to take any story on the instalment 
 plan," explained Jerry Quinn. " I like a joint of roast 
 beef better than I do a string of sausages." 
 
 In fact, the author could not find anybody who was 
 reading his serial, either in the office or out. He ex 
 amined all the exchanges eagerly to see whether any
 
 210 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 of the other papers, the dailies or the weeklies in other 
 cities, had not a good word to say for this story by " S. 
 Francis"; but he found nothing. It seemed to him 
 at last as though Dust and Ashes was being paid out 
 into a vacuum, week by week. He decided finally that 
 he Avould willingly have seen it abused by every critic in 
 the country rather than not have heard from it at all. 
 
 When they took possession of the paper, Truax had 
 sent out a carefully devised announcement of the new 
 policy of Manhattan, and of the change of editor; and 
 this paragraph was copied, without comment, all over 
 the eountry, from the Gossip, the literary weekly of 
 New York, to the Golden Fleece, the literary weekly of 
 San Francisco. 
 
 "It s almost worth while to have a new editor now 
 and then," said Truax; "you get such a lot of free 
 advertising out of it, if you know how to go about it." 
 
 " You ll get something else, too," Jerry Quinn added ; 
 " you ll get all the shop-worn manuscripts in the coun 
 try, that s what you ll get. Every fellow who has his 
 story rejected everywhere will take it down, roll it up 
 again, and send it to you within twenty-four hours after 
 he reads that paragraph." 
 
 " That accounts for the number of impossible stories 
 I ve been receiving the past fortnight," said the new 
 editor. " I didn t get a single thing fit to print out 
 of the first hundred I dug through," 
 
 " But you will, though," declared Shields. " I re 
 member that the first poem of mine the Arctic accepted 
 had been rejected by the Dial for the Sunday paper, 
 and rejected even by the Gossip. It s true, I told the 
 Gossip I expected to be paid for it, and then it came 
 back to me by return mail."
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOBROW 211 
 
 "Did the Gossip ask yon to contribute to its sym 
 posium, Clarry ?" asked Jerry Qninn ; " the one they 
 had last winter the one about the nature of the first 
 message we should try to send to Mars ?" 
 
 " They did that," answered the Irishman ; " and they 
 waxed hot in the collar when I asked them how much 
 they expected to pay for my opinion. They said they 
 thought I would be glad to take part in a discussion of 
 great public interest. I told them that I would take 
 part, with pleasure, for ten dollars a thousand words. 
 And now the Gossip is always criticising my verses 
 and saying that 1 lack the divine afflatus." 
 
 "This dunning men of letters for gratuitous copy 
 seems to me very like blackmail," Sartain asserted. 
 "Manhattan is going on the principle that the laborer 
 is worthy of his hire." 
 
 That s so," said Shields ; "what s good enough to 
 print is good enough to pay for ; that s what I say." 
 
 I don t know as I d say it," Jerry returned, "and 
 I don t know as I would. They are paying you with 
 the ad. remember that. There s lots of us always 
 ready to advertise ourselves, and mad enough if we re 
 left out." 
 
 This conversation took place one afternoon towards 
 the end of May in the office of Manhattan, which was 
 on the third floor of a shabby old house in Union 
 Square, a dwelling once, and now let out to tenants 
 of all sorts. Of the two front rooms which the paper 
 rented, Truax kept the larger for the publishing de 
 partment, and on the partitioned shelves against the 
 Avails were stored the back numbers. The smaller, 
 which had originally been a hall bedroom, was re 
 served for Sartain as the editorial sanctum. It con-
 
 212 A CONFIDENT TOMORROW 
 
 tained a desk in fairly good repair, a cane-bottom chair 
 for the editor himself, and a wooden settle, on which 
 the visiting contributor could sit comfortably. It was 
 Truax who declared that it would never do to make 
 it easy for callers, or they would stay too long. 
 
 " By the way, Shields," Sartain continued, with a 
 little hesitation, " there s no use in your trying to tuck 
 the names of your hatter and your tailor into the para 
 graphs you send in. I m on the lookout now, and I 
 shall kill all your puffs." 
 
 "Ah, come now," answered Shields, pleadingly, 
 " why not leave me in one now and then ? You see, 
 it s this way if I say a good word for my tailor in the 
 papers, or for my hatter, or for the man who makes my 
 shoes, then he s never in so great a hurry to bother 
 me with his bill." 
 
 "If any man wants an ad. in Manhattan he must 
 step up to the captain s office and pay for it," said 
 Truax. 
 
 "And is it an ad. that you ll call a few pleasant 
 words now and then to confer happiness on a worthy 
 tradesman, and to make him feel a little less distrust 
 ful ?" Shields rejoined. " And you don t pretend now 
 to make your Manhattan any more high-toned, as you 
 call it, than the Spectator I mean the original Specta 
 tor of Queen Anne s time ?" 
 
 Sartain admitted that he could hardly hope to main 
 tain a higher standard than Steele and Addison. 
 
 "Well, then," returned Shields, triumphantly, "they 
 did it. They puffed their friends and I don t mean 
 the friends they had a dish of tea with or a glass of wine ; 
 I mean the tradesmen they did business with their ad 
 vertisers, in short. In the Spectator, and in the Tatler,
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 218 
 
 too, Steele was forever saying a good word for the wine 
 merchant what s that his name was ? the wine 
 merchant who had an advertisement on the last page." 
 
 "Did you see the way the Upper Ten jumped on 
 you this week, Sartain ?" asked Quinn. " They call yon 
 the Exile from Kansas, and the Topeka Fugitive, and 
 lots of other things. I guess they want you to notice 
 them." 
 
 "And I m not going to do it," the editor asserted. 
 " Why should I sink Manhattan to the level of the 
 Upper Ten? I hate that sort of thing, anyway. You 
 know what Emerson Adams says. He says Ameri 
 can journalism is like Chinese warfare there s so 
 much beating of the tomtoms, and wearing of masks 
 to frighten the enemy, and throwing of stink-pots." 
 
 " I wish one of the big dailies would jump on us ev 
 ery day the Gazette now, or the Dial," said Tranx ; 
 "that would be an ad. if you like." 
 
 "The big dailies here won t take any notice of us," 
 Sartain admitted ; " but the out-of-town papers are 
 very friendly." 
 
 " If that s so, why not get up something to please 
 the people in the other cities ?" suggested Jerry Quinn. 
 " It would be a big joke to have a Chicago letter in 
 your New York weekly. I could write it for you with 
 out leaving my seat." 
 
 " And I can write you a Boston letter, if you d like 
 it," Shields asserted, "and one that they d think was 
 written by a member of their own Brahmin caste 
 barring a will for a shall here and there, that may 
 be you could put straight for me." 
 
 Thus was suggested a series of articles which did 
 much to make Manhattan better known. In the first
 
 214 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 issue in June, a notice at the head of the editorial 
 column announced that in the next number would 
 appear the first of a group of "Letters from Country 
 Towns. No. I. Chicago." This impertinently effec 
 tive announcement was due to Emerson Adams, whom 
 Sartain had told about the new series. Quinn wrote 
 the letter from Chicago in a vein of ironic humor, 
 which served as an example to the writers of the other 
 letters. Adams gave Shields the latest bits of im 
 printed personal gossip from Boston, and as a result 
 half the newspapers in New England made editorial 
 reference to "Letters from Country Towns. No. 
 II. Boston." As it happened, Truax had been on a 
 Philadelphia paper for a few months, and he supplied 
 the local color needed for No. III., one allusion in 
 which a mention of the sign near the Red Bridge, 
 inviting the passer-by to partake of catfish and waffles 
 for some strange reason, stirred the wrath of the 
 Pennsylvania!! journalists, who promptly abused Man 
 hattan. 
 
 These letters of " Asmodeus " (for such was the 
 signature Sartain attached to them all) really helped 
 the circulation of the paper, in spite of the fact that 
 July is generally the worst month in the year for the 
 sale of a weekly. Sartain was a little chagrined that 
 these girding trifles should be more potent in arrest 
 ing public attention than his own serial story, or than 
 the serious discussions of public affairs he contributed 
 every week editorially. 
 
 The sketches and letters were to Sartain of value 
 only as they might attract readers to the paper. The 
 object for which the paper itself existed was the arous 
 ing of public opinion against the inequalities and the
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 215 
 
 injustices obvious enough in the structure of modern 
 society. He was not a shrill and blatant assailant of 
 the rich, but he was unceasing in pointing out the 
 many ways in which the present organization of com 
 merce bore down heavily on the poor ; he was un 
 sparing in his attacks on those corporations which 
 sought to set themselves above the law ; he was insist 
 ent in holding men in public life up to a high stand 
 ard. In applying these principles of militant journal 
 ism, as he understood it, he had the support of Mr. 
 Dircks, who was always particularly pleased when 
 some well-known man of large means was held up to 
 obloquy for a breach of the law. If the editor had 
 allowed himself to be influenced unduly by the owner, 
 Manhattan would have become more and more violent 
 week by week. 
 
 " It ain t hot enough !" the old man would say. 
 "You give it to them hot and heavy/ 
 
 And then Sartain would try in vain to get Dircks to 
 formulate his opinions. Apparently the old man had 
 never thought out what he felt, and certainly he could 
 not make his views clear to any one else. Dircks s 
 animosity was always at white heat for the prosper 
 ous evil - doer, but it cooled at once when justice 
 overtook the rascal. Whether or not the man de- 
 s t erved the punishment about to be bestowed on him 
 had nothing to do with Dircks s feelings towards 
 him. 
 
 " What s the use of pounding him any more ?" the 
 old man asked Sartain one day in September, after the 
 publication in Manhattan of an article calling for the 
 full penalty of the law upon a recently arrested forger 
 who had abused a trust reposed in him. " The man s
 
 216 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 down, ain t he ? Well, then, why not let up on him ? 
 Don t hound him any more." 
 
 Sartain told Adams about this when they dined that 
 evening together under a tent in the back-yard of the 
 Fried Cat, and the painter said, "That makes out my 
 theory of Dircks that he s always on the side of the 
 under dog, even when the under dog deserves his lick 
 ing. It s very curious, I confess, and I don t under 
 stand it, but that s it, I m sure. If Benedict Arnold 
 were in jail, the old man wouldn t want him harshly 
 dealt with." 
 
 " How does that fit in with his hatred of ill-gotten 
 wealth ?" asked Sartaiu. 
 
 " It s got to fit in the best way it can," Adams an 
 swered. "And maybe, after all, he isn t as violent 
 as you think he is. It isn t so very radical, is it, to 
 want to set the classes against the masses ?" 
 
 With Adams, who had been obliged to forego his 
 trip to Europe, on account of a commission to paint 
 the decorative panels for the ballroom of a new cot 
 tage at Lenox, in which the first dance was to be given 
 in September, Sartain took his share of the summer 
 amusements of the city ; they ran down to Coney 
 Island to dine, and they lounged away an evening now 
 and then at one or another of the roof-gardens. The 
 summer wore away slowly, and yet when it was over, 
 and when October came, it suddenly seemed to Sar 
 tain as though the six months had fled past with un 
 precedented swiftness.
 
 CHAPTER XVTI 
 
 TOWARDS the end of September, an editorial article 
 of Sartain s happened to hit the public craving for 
 novelty. The municipal election was unusually im 
 portant that year, in view of the impending consolida 
 tion of Brooklyn and of various other outlying sub 
 urbs with New York. Sartain urged that the enlarged 
 metropolis should be set off from the rest of the State 
 of Xew York and made a free city, administering its 
 own affairs under a new charter, and entirely without 
 interference from Albany ; and that this reform be 
 embodied in a constitutional amendment. The Daily 
 Dial promptly proceeded to hold this suggestion up 
 to ridicule, and to declare that the hebetudinous crank 
 who advanced it should be sent back to the asylum 
 from which he had been prematurely discharged. The 
 next day the Gotham Gazette (in accordance with its 
 established habit of taking the side opposite to that 
 supported by the Dial) copied Sartain s article in full 
 and advocated his plan in a column editorial. There 
 upon the Dial returned to the attack and asserted 
 that such a scheme appealed to only scatter-brained 
 incompetents and to megalomaniac rnattoids. Then 
 the Gazette sent out its host of reporters and inter 
 viewed one hundred prominent citizens, asking every 
 one whether he had read the article in Manhattan and
 
 218 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKKOW 
 
 what he thought of the plan of municipal indepen 
 dence it proposed. As a result of this discussion, the 
 whole edition of that week s Manhattan was sold out 
 in two days after publication, and the paper had to 
 go to press again. Of the next number, ten thousand 
 copies were printed boldly, and Sartain s second article 
 on "New York can Stand Alone" was adroitly adver 
 tised in all the leading papers. But it attracted less 
 attention than the first, for the scheme was no longer 
 a novelty. Still the circulation rose a little, and Truax 
 kept on advertising inexpensively but effectively the 
 two or three contributions in each number he thought 
 most likely to please the popular taste. 
 
 Sartain was a modest young man, and, with all his 
 confidence in the future, he did not overestimate his 
 own immediate importance ; yet it was with a twinge 
 of regret that he had to recognize the hard fact that 
 the serial publication of Dust and Ashes had in no 
 wise helped the circulation of the journal he edited. 
 As a result of this, his liking for it returned ; there 
 were deficiencies enough, and blemishes not a few, but 
 it was an honest piece of work, for all that, and not 
 one to be ashamed of. With this in his mind, he did 
 not see why he should not appeal from the narrow cir 
 cle that had been glancing over Manhattan to the 
 broader body that read books. He sent the pages of 
 the paper containing Dust and Ashes to John Eudder- 
 f orth & Company, the publishers of Vivian s books. 
 
 A fortnight later he received a note asking him to 
 call at the office of John Kudderforth & Company. 
 When he presented himself, he was told that their 
 readers had reported favorably on the book, and that 
 they were prepared to bring it out immediately on
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 219 
 
 the usual terms, the terms they always offered to an 
 unknown author for his first book ten per cent, on 
 the published price after the sale of one thousand 
 copies. Although Sartain thought this a hard bar 
 gain, he accepted with delight. 
 
 Dust and Ashes was published a few days before 
 Esther Dircks returned. The night before publication 
 a package containing six copies was delivered at the 
 boarding-house in Irving Place ; and when Sartain had 
 eagerly uncovered the contents, his heart was filled 
 with joy. Here was his first-born, at last; and it 
 seemed to him a very promising child. He dandled 
 it in his hands, he patted the back of the volumes 
 affectionately, he admired the brilliant cover-stamp, 
 he was shocked when he opened the pages and his eye 
 fell at once upon the inevitable misprint. He put 
 aside a copy for Esther and another for Vivian. 
 
 Then he began to be anxious about the way it would 
 be received by the critics. Although he was himself 
 the editor of a critical journal, and knew that the 
 writers of book-reviews were human, after all, like the 
 rest of us, still there survived in him a dread of the 
 tribunal the most of whose members were masked. 
 The notices came in time, one after another, favorable 
 mostly, and mostly perfunctory, as though they had 
 been written in a hurry after a hard day s work by 
 some one who had no real relish for literature. 
 
 The young author greedily read them all, good or 
 bad, long or short. He found himself hungering for 
 them, and counting that day lost when his book was 
 not praised or blamed at least once somewhere in the 
 United States. He would go into the book-stores just 
 to see if Dust and Ashes was properly displayed on the
 
 220 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 shelves ; and he would have liked to ask the salesmen 
 how the book was going, if this had not seemed to 
 him undignified. Even when he did not enter, he 
 peered into the window to see if among the many vol 
 umes there displayed he could detect the red and gold 
 that emblazoned the back and sides of his book ; and 
 he looked at the bulletin-boards under the windows of 
 the book-stores to see if any of them contained the 
 poster announcing the novel he had written. There 
 were times when he was disposed to declare that the 
 book publishers did not advertise as well as the theat 
 rical managers, and when he would have liked to see 
 the title of his story displayed on all the board fences 
 by day and illuminated in electric letters against the 
 sky by night. 
 
 It was perhaps due in part to the excitement of the 
 publication of Dust and Ashes that he was able to work 
 feverishly on A Wolf at the Door. He liked the second 
 novel better than the first ; he had grappled with a 
 stronger theme, and he had been more skilful in his 
 application of local color. There were scenes in A 
 Wolf at the Door which struck Sartain as containing 
 the very essence of New York. As a whole, the book 
 seemed to him more than pretty fair, although it was 
 not so fine as he had hoped to make it, of course. It 
 took its place as an important element of the larger 
 panorama of life in New York which he had planned to 
 produce. He had outlined a cycle of stories, all related 
 and all independent; they were to be more closely knit 
 together than the Chronicles of Barset, but not so 
 tightly linked as the Rougon-Macquart series ; prob 
 ably the Human Comedy was the best model, after all. 
 
 Of all the creatures of his imagination the one he
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 221 
 
 had taken most delight in depicting was the heroine, 
 who was an idealization of Esther Dircks as she ap 
 peared to her lover. While trying to avoid all obvi 
 ous personalities, he had given to the girl in his story 
 the physical fascination of Esther Dircks and her 
 charm of manner, and even some of her peculiarities 
 of gesture. Sometimes he was seized with a fear that 
 he had merely photographed her, and that everybody 
 who read the book would recognize her at once ; some 
 times he thought that the circumstances in which the 
 heroine was placed were so different from any in which 
 Esther had ever found herself that her friends would 
 never suspect any likeness ; sometimes he was even 
 afraid that she would not see herself in his heroine, 
 and that, therefore, she would not thus discover how 
 she appeared in his eyes ; and sometimes he was hor 
 ror-stricken at the supposition that she might deem 
 his deed impertinent, and as a punishment dismiss him 
 from her friendship. 
 
 He longed for the sight of her face again, and for 
 the sound of her voice. As October wore away, and 
 the day drew nigh when the boat on which she was 
 sailing homeward with the Vivians might be expected 
 to arrive, he became almost restless. He was young 
 and healthy, and he slept well at night ; but by day 
 he was possessed by impatience. He did his work in 
 the mornings with fierce energy, and he went out in 
 the afternoons for long walks. He scanned the weather 
 reports before breakfast, to make sure that no storm 
 was approaching which could delay her arrival. Twenty- 
 four hours before it was possible for the vessel to reach 
 our shore, even if the voyage were to break the record, 
 he seized every pretext to leave the office and to rush
 
 222 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 into the telegraph-station to ask if any word had yet 
 been received from the incoming boat. 
 
 Finally, on the morning of the last Wednesday in 
 October, Sartain was roused about six o clock, and a 
 message from the telegraph company informed him 
 that the ship had arrived at Quarantine, and would 
 reach the company s dock a little before eight o clock. 
 
 It was a little after seven when Sartain walked out 
 on the pier-head and looked down the bay in vain. 
 Already the friends and families of the expected pas 
 sengers were beginning to collect. The blue-coated 
 custom-house officers were gathered in knots near the 
 mouth of the immense shed that covered the pier. 
 The engineer was getting up steam in a small engine 
 that served the derricks which were to lift the baggage 
 out of the hold. Along the sides of the shed, at equal 
 intervals, were the letters of the alphabet, and thirty 
 or forty porters sat on their trucks, ready to wheel the 
 trunks and bundles to the spaces reserved for the pas 
 sengers having the same initial. 
 
 All these preparations Sartain observed with im 
 patience ; he could not sit still ; he began pacing up 
 and down the pier, always going out on the end to see 
 if the steamer were yet in sight. In one of these rapid 
 walks he almost ran into Esther s father. 
 
 "It s very good of you to come down here just to 
 see my little girl," said Dircks, piercing Sartain with 
 a swift glance from under his beetling eyebrows. "I 
 take it very kindly of you." 
 
 Sartain wished that he had the courage to tell the 
 old man that he loved the little girl quite as much as 
 her father did. As it was, he did not know what to 
 say. Fortunately Dircks was a little excited also. He
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOBBOW 223 
 
 had never before been separated from his only child 
 for so long a period. He walked down to the pier 
 head with Sartain, quite as impatient as the young 
 man was, and wholly unconscious of the young man s 
 hesitation in responding to him. 
 
 When they stepped out on the river end of the 
 wharf, they found an excited group pointing down the 
 bay, and they heard one voice saying. " There she is ! 
 There she is ! She ll be here in ten minutes now." 
 
 A stately craft was to be seen afar steaming up the 
 river ; but it was more than fifteen minutes before 
 she checked her speed opposite to the company s pier. 
 While the tugboats darted forward to carry the cables 
 that were to warp the ship in, Sartain and Dircks 
 tried in vain to pick out the girl they were there to 
 greet from among the hundreds of men and women 
 who crowded the deck of the boat and who were wav 
 ing handkerchiefs frantically as the vessel drew nearer 
 and nearer. 
 
 At last Dircks cried, "I see her ! I see her !" 
 
 Where ?" asked Sartain. 
 
 " There," the old man answered, pointing with his 
 huge finger; " there on the upper deck, under the 
 bridge under the bridge, see ? There s those two 
 red-headed girls, and that s Esther between them. I 
 can see her plain enough, but she don t see me." And 
 he took off his black slouch hat and swung it in the 
 air. 
 
 Sartain looked where her father told him, and as the 
 boat approached he was able slowly to make sure that 
 the woman he loved was again in sight. 
 
 "I do hope she ain t been sick or nothing," said 
 Dircks.
 
 224 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 " She looks well/ the yonng man answered, as 
 calmly as he could. His heart was beating violently. 
 He thought he had never seen her looking more beauti 
 ful. She was now close enough for him to behold her 
 distinctly. He could even observe the animation on 
 her face and the light that glowed in her eyes. 
 
 Although the bow of the boat was now almost at the 
 point of the pier, Esther had not yet discovered her 
 father. She was standing between the twins, and 
 Johnny and Mr. Vivian were visible just behind them. 
 It was Johnny who first saw Dircks and told Esther 
 where the old man was standing. 
 
 When she looked into her father s eyes she leaned 
 forward and waved her handkerchief and blew him a 
 kiss. Then catching sight of Sartain standing by the 
 side of Dircks, she drew back startled, while a blush 
 swiftly mantled her cheeks and fled as swiftly. 
 
 Almost immediately the boat began to slide into her 
 position alongside the pier, and the people on the 
 pier-head rushed back to the opening where the gang 
 plank was ready hoisted. 
 
 Esther was one of the first of the passengers to come 
 ashore. She flew down the bridge and rushed into her 
 father s arms, wholly regardless of those present. 
 
 " There, there, my little girl," said Dircks, soothing 
 her, "you re back now, and it s all right. I hope you 
 had a good time." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, father," she answered. "I enjoyed 
 every minute of it and I kept wishing and wishing 
 that you were with me. I saw ever so many things 
 that would have interested you pictures, you know, 
 and operas." 
 
 "Here s Mr. Sartain come down to see you, too,"
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 225 
 
 the old man told her as she released herself from his 
 arms. 
 
 The young man had been standing a little behind 
 her father, not wishing to intrude. Now he stepped 
 forward, his heart again beating high with joy and 
 hope. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Sartain," she said, very calmly, holding out 
 her hand, " it was very good of you to come down with 
 father." 
 
 He wanted to tell her that he had come before her 
 father, that he had come alone, that he had come for 
 her only ; but he was disconcerted by her placidity. 
 He had been looking forward ardently to a meeting 
 with the woman he loved after half a year s absence. 
 He was taken aback to find her greeting him in a 
 friendly fashion only. 
 
 It took him a minute to adjust himself to the new 
 conditions, so different were they from those he had 
 day-dreamed about. He loved her, and he knew it ; 
 but she did not know it. How should she ? And she 
 did not love him. Why should she ? He recognized 
 that he had been going too fast, and that he had no 
 right to expect her to meet him on any other than the 
 footing of friendship on which they had parted. He 
 had no claim to be received as anything but an ac 
 quaintance he was not even an intimate and she had 
 smiled on him and shaken hands with him just as she 
 would with any other man with whom she was familiar, 
 lie accepted the situation, but he shrank away, and all 
 his shyness returned as the Vivians came pouring down 
 the gang-plank. 
 
 The twins were caught up by a band of young men 
 and maidens, who swept them off to one side of the 
 
 15
 
 226 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKKOW 
 
 shed. Mr. Vivian and Johnny came towards Dircks. 
 Sartain noticed that Mr. Vivian was dressed with scru 
 pulous precision in spick-and-span clothes, and that 
 Johnny, a little plumper than before, was clad in a very 
 tight-fitting, tailor-made suit. 
 
 Mr. Vivian shook hands with Dircks. "You see 
 we have taken good care of her," he said. "We are 
 bringing her back with the roses in her cheeks 
 again." 
 
 Esther told her father how good Mr. Vivian had 
 been to her, and so had Johnny, and Dora, and Theo, 
 too nobody could have been nicer. 
 
 Sartain scrutinized every expression on Vivian s face 
 and Esther s, and weighed every intonation, to see if 
 there had been any change in their relations since 
 they had left Xew York. So intent was he on those 
 observations that he failed to see the neatly gloved 
 hand which Johnny extended to him. 
 
 "I m back, too," she said, covering him with confu 
 sion. Then Vivian also shook hands with him ; and 
 the five of them stood there for a minute chatting near 
 the foot of the gang-plank. 
 
 Already was the derrick lifting the trunks out of the 
 hold and lowering them on deck in a sling that held a 
 dozen at a time, to be slid down an inclined plane to 
 the porters waiting for them. Five minutes after the 
 ship was made fast, the trucks were rolling and rum 
 bling in every direction, distributing the baggage over 
 the pier. The rattle and the roar increased until con 
 versation became difficult, without raising the voice to 
 shrillness. 
 
 " I say, now," said Johnny suddenly, to her father, 
 "why shouldn t Esther go? She needn t wait here
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 227 
 
 for her trunks to be examined,, need she ? I ll see 
 them through for her." 
 
 "I hope you got lots of pretty things/ declared 
 Dircks to his daughter. 
 
 " I have, indeed/ she cried, "though I didn t spend 
 half as much as you wrote." 
 
 " But, nevertheless, Miss Esther has nothing dutia 
 ble," said Vivian, solemnly. 
 
 " Oh no," Esther answered. 
 
 "Of course not !" Johnny corroborated. "What a 
 foolish suggestion ! Who ever heard of a girl s bring 
 ing home anything that was dutiable ? Give me your 
 keys, Esther, and I ll smile on the custom-house man 
 for you, and he will be as easy with us as he dares." 
 
 Esther demurred a little, but she suffered herself to 
 be persuaded, and her father took her away gladly. 
 
 Sartain wanted to go up-town with her, but he felt 
 he had no right to intrude on her first talk with her 
 father after so long an absence. So he walked with 
 them to the cross-town car, and asked if he might not 
 call soon to hear her tell about the good times she had 
 had on the other side. 
 
 "I shall be very glad to see you," she said, simply. 
 " Why not come in some Sunday afternoon next Sun 
 day, if you have no other engagement ?" 
 
 Sartain had no other engagement, and he promised 
 to present himself on the appointed day. Then he 
 helped her into the car and gave up her little hand-bag, 
 which he had insisted on carrying, and she thanked 
 him pleasantly.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 ON Sunday afternoon Sartain went to Stuyvesant 
 Square, hoping to find Esther alone. In this expecta 
 tion he was disappointed, for Dircks was sitting before 
 the fire, smoking his corn-cob pipe. The old man had 
 caught cold the morning he waited on the dock, and 
 Esther had forbidden him to leave the house. 
 
 Sartain paid a long visit, overjoyed to be again in 
 the same room with Esther. His eye gladdened as he 
 watched her wait on her father, mixing his medicine 
 and putting the tobacco ready to his hand. 
 
 She talked about her summer, telling her visitor 
 what she had most enjoyed, describing the pleasant 
 excursions they had made, repeating the memorable 
 sayings of the notabilities they had met. Sartain kept 
 asking questions and leading her on for the sheer de 
 light he took in listening to the modulations of her 
 voice, and in watching the play of expression as she 
 set forth her experiences. Once he was moved to cap 
 her account of a day s trip from Interlaken over the 
 Wengernalp by the story of his own week on foot in 
 the White Mountains when he was in college. 
 
 A little later Dircks began to ask Sartain for the 
 latest news in regard to the election, then only ten days 
 distant. 
 
 Manhattan was one of the organs of the citizens
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 229 
 
 who wished to elect a Mayor wholly without regard to 
 his politics and solely with reference to his ability to 
 administer the affairs of Xew York. The contest was 
 likely to be exceedingly close, and the air was full of 
 rumors of one kind or another. Sartain Avas broad 
 enough to go behind this mere gossip and to pin his 
 faith on the common-sense of the people. He believed 
 that the cause he advocated was right, and that it was 
 therefore certain to prevail in the long run, even if, 
 by chance, it were defeated in the coming election. 
 Dircks was less confident and more defiant. When the 
 old man s feelings were wrought up, his taciturnity 
 vanished and he became unduly loquacious. Sartain 
 found himself immeshed in a political discussion in 
 which he suspected Esther to be but doubtfully in 
 terested. He tried to lead her father away from it, but 
 without success. 
 
 At last the young man took his leave. He wanted 
 to tell Esther what it meant to him to have her back 
 again where he could feast his eyes with the sight of 
 her. But he could find no form of words that did not 
 sound fulsome and absurd. His intention died away 
 with a broken word or two, swallowed almost before it 
 was spoken. 
 
 On the stoop of the house he met Adams just about 
 to ring the bell. 
 
 Sartain knew that the artist had been called to Bos 
 ton a week before by the serious illness of his mother, 
 and he supposed that this was the reason his rival had 
 not been at the dock to receive Esther on her return. 
 
 "Hello !" cried the painter; "you re just the man I 
 wanted to see at least, seeing you now will save my 
 having to write a letter, and that s money in my pocket
 
 230 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 two cents, at least. My mother s all right again, and I 
 got away from Boston yesterday morning by the bright 
 light. In the afternoon I went to the Vivians , and 
 we ve got a grand scheme ; and that s what I was going 
 to write you about. Can you chafe ?" 
 
 " Chafe ?" repeated Sartain, in perplexity. 
 
 " Chafe that s what I said," the artist answered. 
 " It s a new pocket-verb of my own. To chafe, to cook 
 on a chafing-dish. It s bound to be accepted, that 
 word is, because it fills a felt want." 
 
 "No," the other responded ; "I can t chafe that is 
 to say, I ve never tried." 
 
 " Then you can try on Election night," said Adams ; 
 "that s the scheme. We shall all want to sit up and 
 see the excitement, and find out how the thing goes, 
 and be in at the death. So I m giving a chafing-dish 
 party at my studio, to celebrate the safe return of the 
 Vivians and Miss Esther here. I m going in now to 
 ask her and her iconoclastic sire." 
 
 When he heard that Esther was to be invited, Sar 
 tain accepted promptly. 
 
 As it chanced, he did not see her again until they 
 met at the studio on Election night. He called in 
 Stuyvesant Square the next Sunday afternoon only to 
 be told that Esther had gone to Tuxedo from Friday 
 to Monday with the Vivians. It was her father who 
 gave him this information, and who detained him for 
 an hour, discussing the political situation. 
 
 On Election day, after Sartain voted, he went forth 
 on a tour of inspection. His own district was in a 
 well-to-do neighborhood, and he wanted to see whether 
 an election could pass off as quietly in the worst parts 
 of New York as here. He went down to Tompkins
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 231 
 
 Square, and then on to Cherry Hill ; and everywhere 
 there was the same orderliness. The silence of the 
 city on that day, when its inhabitants were deciding 
 who should manage its affairs and control its immense 
 revenues, the closed stores, the cessation of business in 
 all the chief thoroughfares, the general air of expect 
 ancy all these things impressed Sartain. It was not 
 until after the polls had closed that he saw the first 
 drunken man. Even at nightfall, when the boys were 
 making all the side streets brilliant with bonfires, it 
 was not often that any one was to be seen under the 
 influence of liquor. That a day so exciting as this 
 should draw to a close without violence or disorder, 
 this seemed to him a proof of the marvellous manner 
 in which America had imposed its political ideals upon 
 a population the half of which had been born under 
 wholly different political conditions. 
 
 Standing under the gas-jet, he picked up Dust and 
 Ashes, and reread hastily the two or three chapters 
 which described the turmoil of a political campaign. 
 He relished his own writing ; it seemed to him pretty 
 good, after all ; there were blemishes in it, no doubt, 
 but the excitement of an election was caught not in 
 adequately ; the picture he had presented was very like 
 the reality. 
 
 In his walk from Irving Place up to the tall building 
 near Thirty-fourth Street where Adams had his studio, 
 Sartain had to thread his way through the throngs that 
 packed the sidewalks of Madison Square, and that 
 surged out here and there into the broad streets, mak 
 ing it difficult for the street-cars to force themselves 
 through the compacting crowd. White screens gleamed 
 aloft, on which magic-lanterns projected the latest re-
 
 232 A CONFIDENT TO-MORIiOAV 
 
 turns from all parts of the city. As the triumph of 
 the reform party became more probable, the cheering 
 became more frequent. Although the figures showed 
 that the inhabitants of the city had divided almost 
 equally, the utmost good -nature prevailed. Men on 
 the winning side were chaffing men on the losing side ; 
 but there was no bitterness in it, the defeated accept 
 ing the result and declaring that their turn would 
 come next, as the city would be sick of reform inside 
 of six months. From the lovely tower of the Madison 
 Square Garden, faint against the deep blue sky, an 
 electric search-light flashed signals to be interpreted 
 many miles away. 
 
 After Sartain had emerged from the swaying mob 
 that was shrieking itself hoarse with every set of re 
 turns thrown upon the screens, he went on his way up 
 town. Half-way between Madison Square and Thirty- 
 fourth Street he had to stand aside while a marching 
 club went by, a score or two of young fellows, walking 
 one behind the other, each with his hands on the 
 shoulders of the man before him, and all keeping step 
 to the staccato cry, "We we we - got m now!" 
 monotonously reiterated, until the leader gave a sud 
 den signal, and then they all responded with a sky 
 rocket cheer, which died down with individual and 
 fantastic yells. 
 
 Adams s studio was on the top-floor of a large build 
 ing on a corner of Broadway. The elevator-boy told 
 Sartain at which door to knock, and when he came 
 opposite to it he heard the boisterous laughter of the 
 twins. His shyness returned instantly. Of late he 
 had hoped that he was overcoming it, and even out 
 growing it, but in the presence of Mr. Vivian s robust
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORRONV 233 
 
 daughters it always recurred. Now it was only the 
 fact that he had accepted the invitation, combined 
 with the expectation that he would meet Esther, which 
 enabled him to conquer his instinctive desire to run 
 away. 
 
 lie had to knock three times before any one heard 
 him, and then it was either Dora or Theo who cried 
 " Come in ! Oh, come in I" 
 
 When he had entered he found the whole party 
 gathered around a table in the centre of the room. 
 At one end of this table sat Mr. Vivian, as carefully 
 dressed as ever and as scrupulously combed, but disfig 
 ured now by a huge check apron. He had apples, ba 
 nanas, celery, and lettuce in plates before him. His 
 three daughters, Esther, and Adams were grouped 
 around him, watching his motions, commenting on 
 them, and tendering advice. 
 
 Adams looked up as Sartain entered. " Hsssh !" he 
 cried, " don t say a word. The inventor of the famous 
 Vera Cruz Salad is now engaged in compounding it. 
 Beware how you distract his attention !" 
 
 " Never mind their foolishness, Sartain," said Viv 
 ian. " What is the latest news ?" 
 
 "Come, come," interrupted the artist, "business 
 before pleasure ! I adjure Sartain not to talk politics 
 until you have finished that salad. Politics is all very 
 fine, but a salad is a serious thing !" 
 
 Esther was at one end of the table facing Vivian, 
 and Sartain came forward and stood beside her. She 
 greeted him with her radiant smile, and he was happy 
 at once and willing to stand there silently forever. He 
 gazed around at the studio, which he had never before 
 seen lighted up at night. It was a large room, with
 
 234 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 one immense window on the north side. A screen 
 shut off one corner, and from where Sartain stood he 
 could see that all sorts of odds and ends had been 
 heaped up there out of the way. An easel was drawn 
 against the wall near the window, and on this was a 
 vigorously brushed portrait of Vivian ; and as Sartain 
 examined this he envied the art of the painter which 
 could thus set a human being before the spectator with 
 a few strokes, bold and simple. On the wall opposite 
 to Sartain was the painting of Cinderella and the 
 Haughty Sisters," which had come back from the ex 
 hibition unsold. Facing this picture was an upright 
 piano with a lighted lamp on it. 
 
 Vivian was proceeding steadily with the preparation 
 of his salad. He chopped the celery into little bits ; 
 he peeled two or three apples and cut them into little 
 cubes ; and he also cut an equal number of little cubes 
 of banana. He decked a broad bowl with the leaves of 
 the lettuce, he mixed the celery, the apple, and the ba 
 nana together, in the proportion of one-half celery to 
 one -quarter each of apple and banana, and, having 
 mingled them carefully, he heaped them up in the 
 bowl, in the centre of the lettuce. Then he turned to 
 the preparation of the dressing, a mayonnaise, in which 
 the yolks of hard-boiled eggs, olive-oil, white-wine vine 
 gar, salt, mustard, and three kinds of pepper were all 
 artfully proportioned and adroitly commingled. At 
 last he finished beating up the thick, golden liquid, 
 and he poured it cautiously over the ingredients ar 
 ranged in the broad bowl. 
 
 " There !" said the operator ; there is a salad, if 
 you like ! What do you say to that ?" 
 
 "I m not saying a word/ Adams responded. "I
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 235 
 
 never look a friend s hobby in the month. But it is 
 my turn now, and I will show you." 
 
 He put the salad-bowl on the top of the piano, by 
 the side of the lamp, and cleared away the plates 
 Vivian had used. He went behind the screen, and re 
 turned with his chafing-dish and the ingredients for 
 an oyster-stew. 
 
 " Give me that apron," he said. " Eeally, store- 
 clothes and a boiled shirt are no costume to chafe in. 
 I ought to have worn my overalls." 
 
 Johnny helped her father to take off the apron, and 
 then the twins tied it on Adams. 
 
 "Uni um," said Theo, "don t those oysters look 
 good ?" 
 
 "They are so plump," added Dora, "that it would 
 be rank cannibalism for us to eat them." 
 
 "And I m just as sure as sure that he s going to 
 put in butter and crackers and all sorts of fattening 
 things," Theo continued. 
 
 "I don t know how it is," Dora went on. "I had 
 a good dinner, and it isn t late and yet the sight of 
 a chafing-dish makes me hungry at once !" 
 
 " The sight of Madams s cooking will take it away 
 again," suggested Johnny. 
 
 " That isn t fair," cried Adams, as he began to but 
 ter his pan; "your little sisters are healthy, hearty 
 girls, and " 
 
 " Healthy !" interrupted Theo. "Oh, you hateful 
 thing !" 
 
 " Hearty !" Dora ejaculated "You ve no right to 
 insult us by saying that." 
 
 "Just because we are not as thin as Esther, you treat 
 us as if as if we were pin-cushions," Theo declared.
 
 236 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 "And Esther has an excellent appetite haven t 
 yon?" Dora asserted. "You should have seen her 
 eat when she was in Paris." 
 
 " Oh, Dora," protested Esther, " you make me feel 
 as if I had been a boa-constrictor." 
 
 "Yes," Theo declared, gravely; "if I could have 
 things to eat every day like those we had in Paris, I 
 don t think I should want to die." 
 
 " Bal !" Adams interjected, having lighted the lamp 
 under the chafing-dish. " You don t want to die now, 
 do you ?" 
 
 " Don t we ?" Dora responded, promptly. 
 
 " Why not ?" asked Theo. " Do you know what we 
 did one night last week ? I had been awake a long 
 while, and I felt sure Dora was awake too. So I asked 
 her what she was doing, and she had a grand scheme 
 
 " I was thinking about all the people who would 
 send flowers if we were to die," Dora broke in; "and 
 I told Theo, and she came in my bed, and we found 
 a pencil and a piece of paper. We lighted the gas, 
 and" 
 
 "And we made out a list of everybody who would 
 send flowers," Theo interrupted, " and what they 
 would send. We put you down for a wreath, Madams." 
 
 "Quite right," the artist responded, with unwink 
 ing gravity; "I always send a wreath when I have 
 been invited to dinner." 
 
 " Do you not think you have given us enough of the 
 death s head at the feast ?" asked Vivian. "This is 
 not an Egyptian banquet." 
 
 Sartain had said nothing. He had listened in silent 
 astonishment. The twins were inexplicable to him 
 always. He could not understand their extravagant
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOBEOW 237 
 
 gayety, their morbid fancies, their liking for person 
 alities,, their familiarity, which seemed to him almost 
 underbred. 
 
 "Xo," said Adams, "this is not an Egyptian ban 
 quet ; but it will be a Barmecide feast if this lamp 
 doesn t burn better. I tell you what it is, girls, you 
 mustn t ask me to come and chafe your wedding-break 
 fast for you." 
 
 "It is Cinderella who gets married," Dora retorted, 
 "not the Haughty Sisters." 
 
 "It is Cinderella who marries Prince Charming," 
 added Theo, and then they both laughed. 
 
 Esther tried to turn their attention. " Cinderella 
 marries the prince, I ll admit," she said, " but don t 
 forget that she found husbands for her sisters dukes, 
 I think they were, or counts, or something." 
 
 " If I were you, I shouldn t want a husband some 
 body else had found," Johnny suggested ; " perhaps 
 the wife who had lost him might offer a reward and 
 get him back." 
 
 "All the dukes and counts I hear about nowadays 
 are as poor as crows, and I don t want to get a hus 
 band out of the almshouse," said Theo. 
 
 " Xeither do I," Dora continued, the one playing 
 into the other s hands, as was their custom. " I don t 
 mean to marry for money I wouldn t do that ! But 
 I believe it s just as easy to fall in love with a rich 
 man as a poor man. Don t you, Esther ?" 
 
 The girl was taken by surprise at being summoned 
 into the conversation, thus unexpectedly. " I don t 
 believe in marrying for money, of course/ she said, 
 at hist, "although I suppose it is a good thing that 
 the man you love should have something of his own.
 
 238 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKROW 
 
 But if you love him, what does it matter whether he is 
 rich or poor ? It s the man you are going to live with, 
 for better or for worse ; it isn t the money. If you 
 love him, and he loves you, he would do anything for 
 you and you for him. I don t intend to marry any 
 man until I m ready to black his boots !" 
 
 " That s all very well," Johnny answered, " but you 
 wouldn t have to do that if he were rich enough to 
 wear patent-leathers I" 
 
 " I like to hear you girls talking about marriage and 
 giving in marriage," Adams asserted, "just as if there 
 were not more serious things in the world than falling 
 in love. We men don t keep on talking about getting 
 married. Do we, Sartain ?" 
 
 Thus suddenly addressed, Sartain could only stam 
 mer, "I I I don t know." 
 
 " Well, I don t know about you, either, if it comes 
 to that," Adams answered, as he began to drop the 
 oysters into the chafing-dish. "Maybe some invisi 
 ble spinster in New England has your affections on 
 cold storage, for all I know. But here in New 
 York I ve never seen you go a-girling. Of course, 
 you may have half a dozen co-flirts I ve never sus 
 pected." 
 
 Sartain tugged at the point of his beard and wished 
 that he was quick-witted. He would have liked to 
 turn the tables on Adams sharply, and to get the 
 laugh on him by some unexpected repartee. To do 
 this in the presence of Esther would be doubly grati 
 fying. But he could find nothing at all worthy of the 
 occasion. He thought of retorting that Adams judged 
 others by himself, but this seemed to him unspeakably 
 cheap. And in the end all he said was, "I shall not
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKKOW 239 
 
 condescend to make any defence against such a charge 
 from such a source." 
 
 The sound of an approaching brass -band became 
 audible above the chatter of conversation and the 
 rattle in the streets below. Adams was left alone at 
 the table while the rest of the party flocked over to 
 the broad window. 
 
 A campaign club was marching down Broadway from 
 its own rooms to the headquarters of the party organi 
 zation in Twenty-third Street. There were a hundred 
 men walking four abreast, with flags, transparencies, 
 and popping Roman candles. They kept cheering and 
 shrieking, and as they went down the street the crowds 
 on the sidewalks joined in the cheers with hearty good- 
 humor. 
 
 " What was the last report as you came by ?" Vivian 
 inquired of Sartain. 
 
 "The returns show that we have carried the city 
 by anywhere from ten to forty thousand/ the young 
 man answered. 
 
 " Father will be so glad of that," Esther declared. 
 " He s coming for" me. But he was too restless to stay, 
 and he said he d go down to Madison Square and get 
 the latest news." 
 
 As the procession passed on out of sight and out of 
 hearing the twins went back to the table. Mr. Vivian 
 had remained at the window with his eldest daughter 
 and Esther. So had Sartain, who was trying to find 
 some means of separating the girl he loved from the 
 other two, and of having her all to himself for a little 
 chat. But before he had devised a scheme to accom 
 plish this, Vivian had expressed to Esther his belief 
 that her father would make a most effective portrait,
 
 240 A CONFIDENT: TO-MORBOW 
 
 and in a moment more he had led her away to exam 
 ine his own picture on the easel, and thence across the 
 room to the Cinderella. 
 
 Johnny and Sartain were left sitting side by side on 
 the broad lounge before the window. The girl gave 
 him a quizzical look. 
 
 " You weren t quick enough/" she said. " Papa cut 
 in before you." 
 
 Sartain marvelled that she had read his thought 
 thus plainly, and he wondered whether she had dis 
 covered with equal perspicuity her father s affection 
 for Esther. 
 
 " Yes/ he began, "I did want to have a chat with 
 her. You see, it s six months now and more since I ve 
 hardly had a chance to talk to her all to myself." 
 
 " And do you want to talk to her all to yourself just 
 as much as you did six months ago ?" Johnny asked, 
 looking him full in the face. 
 
 " More," he answered, simply "much more. You 
 see, I love her now more than I did then although 
 then I didn t think I could do that." 
 
 " Oh !" said Johnny, sharply. "You love her more 
 now than ever and you come and tell me that ?" 
 
 "I must tell somebody !" he returned. 
 
 Johnny sat silent for a moment, her foot impatient 
 ly tapping the floor. 
 
 " I can t imagine what all you men see in Esther 
 Dircks that s so very attractive," she said, at last. 
 "Of course, she s a nice girl, and a sweet, good girl, 
 arid all that and I love her dearly myself. But you 
 men, you seem to adore her you and Madams and my 
 fa" 
 
 Then she broke off suddenly, and Sartain knew that
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 241 
 
 she had detected the secret that her father had not 
 discovered even yet. 
 
 " It s about time for Madams to propose to her 
 again," continued Johnny. " What is there about 
 Esther that s so strangely fascinating, I d like to 
 know." 
 
 "How can I tell you?" Sartain answered. "It s 
 herself that is her chief charm, I suppose her own 
 exquisite personality. And then she looks so fragile, 
 so ethereal " 
 
 She looks frail enough just as if she hadn t a 
 bone in her body," Johnny interrupted; "in fact, I 
 used to call her Miss Cartilage but for all that she 
 isn t to be blown away by a breeze. She has a healthy 
 appetite, Esther has, and she likes clothes, just as 
 other girls do, and she takes mighty good care of that 
 delicate complexion of hers, and she s miserable if she 
 gets sunburnt ever so little. She isn t so very differ 
 ent from the rest of us, I assure you. She knows that 
 her right profile is better than the left ; and you just 
 see her now as she s talking to papa she always turns 
 the best side to a man." 
 
 Sartain looked at her in dumfounded astonishment. 
 He could not understand why Johnny should indulge 
 in this outbreak. He could not guess why she should 
 thus attack the girl she had just pretended to love. 
 He was so taken by surprise that he said nothing; and 
 Johnny was able to regain her equanimity. 
 
 " I suppose you wonder why I m telling you all these 
 things ?" she asked, with a softening of her voice. 
 Then she laughed lightly. He was looking at Esther 
 as she stood by the side of Vivian at the other end of 
 the room. Her head was turned from side to side, 
 
 16
 
 242 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 gracefully, as she discussed the picture ; then a wisp 
 of her light-gold hair came down over her eyes, and 
 she raised her hand to thrust it into its place a gest 
 ure that always moved Sartain like a beautiful passage 
 of music. 
 
 "Yes," he responded, "I confess I do not perceive 
 your motives." 
 
 " My motives ?" she repeated, rather scornfully. 
 " Oh, well, my motives will have to take care of them 
 selves if I have any. What I wanted to do was to 
 bring you down from the skies and make you put your 
 feet on the solid earth. It s here you ve got to live, 
 for a little while, anyway, and not in heaven ; and 
 that s why it s a good thing Esther s not an angel, but 
 just a woman a woman like the rest of us, with her 
 fine points of character, and her defects, too." 
 
 "I see what you mean," Sartain returned, mollified 
 by her change of tone. You think that I idealize her 
 too much." 
 
 "If I were you, I wouldn t idealize her at all," she 
 retorted. "She s a human being, you see just as I 
 am. She had a father and a mother just as you had. 
 She s a woman, with all the failings of a Avoman even 
 if she has more than her share of a woman s fascina 
 tion." 
 
 " She is a woman of a thousand," Sartain declared. > 
 
 " Oh, I ll say she s a woman of a million, if you like," 
 returned Johnny. " All the same, she is a woman, and 
 not a fairy or a nymph or an angel. And if yon idealize 
 her too much, it isn t good for either of you, because 
 you are certain to find her out sooner or later. It isn t 
 good for her especially that is, if you are ever to 
 marry her."
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 248 
 
 "If I ever marry her !" the young man echoed. 
 " How can I really hope that she will ever marry 
 me ?" 
 
 "There you go idealizing her again/ was the in 
 stant response. " Other girls get married now and 
 then why not Esther Dircks ?" 
 
 " But why should she ever care for me ?" he asked, 
 hoping for encouragement. 
 
 " I don t know, I m sure," Johnny answered, calmly. 
 
 "Who am I, that she should ever take a fancy to 
 me?" pursued Sartain. "I m not rich, I m not hand 
 some, I m not famous. What have I got to offer her ?" 
 
 "Yourself," was the swift reply. "That s all that 
 any man can offer, and it s enough for any girl." 
 
 "Oh, Miss Johnny !" ejaculated Sartain. 
 
 "I mean what I say," the young woman responded. 
 " I m no hypocrite. I don t know whether it s hypoc 
 risy that makes men pretend they are not as good as 
 girls are, or whether it s misplaced modesty, or what 
 it is ; but it s nonsense, whatever it is just nonsense ! 
 I ve no patience with such shallow pretence !" 
 
 Sartain listened to this iconoclastic declaration, won 
 dering why it was that one woman liked to run down 
 another, and thinking how acutely Thackeray had been 
 able to reproduce this feminine characteristic. 
 
 "I wish I could think myself good enough for Miss 
 Esther," he said, at last. 
 
 " Oh, you are incorrigible," cried Johnny, rising to 
 her feet. " You go over to her now, and you ll see 
 that she won t forgive you for having this confidential 
 chat with me." 
 
 Sartain stood up. He wanted to repel this insinua 
 tion against Esther. But Johnny had left him and
 
 244 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 joined her sisters at the table where Adams had just 
 completed half a dozen Welsh-rabbits. 
 
 At the call of the host, Vivian escorted Esther to the 
 table. Sartain could not but remark that his manner 
 towards the girl was caressing and yet not in any way 
 offensive. Esther stood by the side of Johnny, while 
 Sartain went to get chairs for them. It surprised him 
 a little to see that they had their arms about each 
 other s waists. 
 
 When they were seated, there was no place for him 
 save at the other end of the table between the twins. 
 
 They tasted Adams s oysters and his Welsh-rabbits, 
 they devoured Vivian s Vera Cruz salad, and they 
 drank bottle beer in the pewter mugs that the artist 
 had picked up in Holland. They all talked at once. 
 
 Sartain alone said little, and it seemed to him that 
 Esther was treating him with unusual coldness. Gen 
 erally she was affable and friendly, but at this supper 
 she was chilly and almost haughty. He could not imag 
 ine what he might have done to offend her. He was 
 the more grieved at this change of attitude on her part 
 as it was accompanied by a display of greater cordial 
 ity towards Adams. As the supper progressed Sartain 
 sank into a moody dissatisfaction with himself, aiid, in 
 deed, with everybody except her. 
 
 He took no notice of the magpie chatter of the 
 twins, and he was hardly conscious when Johnny left 
 the table, sat down at the piano, and played the ac 
 companiment for the latest negro melody, which her 
 sisters sang with full appreciation of its exotic humor. 
 
 When this had come to an end, Dora turned to the 
 absorbed lover and said, " You sing us something now, 
 Mr. Sartain."
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKROW 245 
 
 " That s so," Theo added. " Sing us that love-song 
 the Arab one, you know. That was splendid !" 
 
 " Don t urge Mr. Sartain to sing just after eating," 
 snid Johnny. 
 
 " But he didn t eat anything at all," Theo retorted. 
 
 "And Esther has never heard him sing that song," 
 Dora declared. "Have you, Esther ?" 
 
 Esther acknowledged that she had not heard it, as 
 she had never been present on any of the occasions 
 when Mr. Sartain had sung it. 
 
 Johnny rose from the piano and closed the cover on 
 the keys. 
 
 Theo instantly took her place. " I know the ac 
 companiment," she cried, as she began. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Sartain," Dora urged. 
 
 Sartain looked at Esther, to see if she really wanted 
 to hear him; but she was talking to Mr. Vivian, almost 
 ostentatiously. 
 
 Then he decided to sing. He was aware that he 
 had a good voice, uncultivated though it was ; and he 
 believed that the Bedouin song was well within its 
 compass. He recalled the words hastily as he took 
 his place beside the piano, and he was pleased at the 
 way in which they expressed his own emotioiis. He 
 did not think that the Arab lover was more devoted to 
 the object of his affection than he was to Esther ; and 
 he had a vague hope she might guess perhaps that he 
 was giving utterance to his own feelings also. 
 
 "Are you ready?" asked the girl at the piano. 
 " Then go ahead !" 
 
 The Orientalism of the first stanza made the song 
 impersonal, as he sang it ; and yet he did not dare to 
 look at Esther. As he reached the refrain, with its
 
 246 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 promise of eternal adoration, his eyes happened to fall 
 on Johnny, who was sitting back in an easy-chair in a 
 constrained attitude, as though gripping its arms. Her 
 gaze was fixed ; and when Sartain involuntarily fol 
 lowed its direction, he discovered that she was staring 
 intently at Esther, whose head was turned away. 
 
 In singing the second stanza, Sartain sympathized 
 fully with the yearning of the lover, and he knew he 
 had never before put so much feeling into his delivery: 
 
 "Look from thy window and see 
 
 My passion find my pain ; 
 I lie on the sands below, 
 
 And I faint in thy disdain. 
 Let the night- winds touch thy brow 
 
 With the heat of my burning sigh, 
 And melt thee to hear the vow 
 
 Of a love that shall not die 
 
 " Till the sun grows cold, 
 And the stars are old, 
 And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold !" 
 
 When the rich barytone notes died away, there was 
 a round of applause. Sartain looked at Esther. She 
 sat still on the lounge, with her head averted, making 
 no sign of approval. 
 
 Then Johnny rose to her feet and went over to the 
 window. " This room is positively stifling !" she said. 
 " Can t we have some air ?" 
 
 Five minutes later there came a knock at the door, 
 and Dircks arrived to take his daughter home, where 
 upon the party broke up. When Sartain bade Esther 
 good-night, he saw that her eyes were singularly bright, 
 and that there was more color on her cheek than usual.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 AFTER the election, the circulation of Manhattan 
 
 increased for a week or two, and then began to, de 
 cline. Neither Sartaiii nor Truax could understand 
 why it was that the paper did not appeal to a larger 
 circle of readers. They had put their heads together 
 and prepared a most alluring series of announcements 
 for the next year ; and as this would be expensive, 
 they consulted Dircks, who had hitherto paid the 
 weekly deficit without a murmur. 
 
 He listened, transfixing first Truax and then Sartain 
 with a glance from under his immense eyebrows. His 
 fingers were gripping and ungripping the handle of 
 the big cotton umbrella he sometimes carried. He 
 heard them out, and then he asked, " What 11 it 
 cost ?" 
 
 When he was told, he said, slowly, " That s a sight 
 of money, but I ll risk it, if you say so. I got it now, 
 anyway." 
 
 The publisher of the paper pointed out that they 
 might hope to get back in subscriptions before New 
 Year s all they had expended in this Christmas adver 
 tising. 
 
 I suppose you might as well have it, sooner or 
 later," was all Dircks answered. 
 
 But as he was going out of the door of the office
 
 248 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKROW 
 
 he stopped on the threshold and turned back to ask, 
 " How much did you say we lost this week ?" 
 
 Truax gave him the figures. 
 
 "I wouldn t mind it," the old man declared, "if 
 you d only go for these scoundrels harder. Show them 
 up ! that s what the paper s for, ain t it ?" 
 
 During the last few weeks of the year the sales of 
 Manhattan remained stationary ; there were fewer sub 
 scriptions renewed than Truax expected, and fewer 
 new subscribers. Sartain did what he could to re 
 duce expenses. He wrote all the editorial articles him 
 self, and he also contributed nearly every week one 
 signed article. He was particular not to buy any man 
 uscript, however tempting it might be in theme or in 
 treatment, unless he could use it immediately ; and 
 he kept down the stock of accepted contributions as 
 low as he dared. 
 
 For the new year he had announced his new serial, 
 A Wolf at the Door, as by " S. Francis," the author 
 of Dust and Ashes, not having himself acknowledged 
 its authorship ; and he began to prepare a series of 
 " Portraits in Black and White," to appear one every 
 week. These he resolved to sign by another pen-name, 
 "Kembrandt Knickerbocker," appropriate to the sharp 
 and etcher-like manner in which he intended to handle 
 certain contemporary notabilities. The first of these 
 chiaroscuro studies of his fellow-citizens was to be de 
 voted to the President of the United States, the second 
 to the Governor of the State, the third to the Mayor 
 of the city ; these three officials being disposed of, he 
 meant to consider in turn the chief authors, painters, 
 actors, architects, and sculptors of New York. 
 
 Foremost amona: the men of letters to have their
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 249 
 
 portraits painted in this series was Vivian ; and Sartain 
 sot himself conscientiously to re-read all the elder 
 author s books in chronological sequence, that he might 
 truce the development of Vivian s talent. AVith a sur 
 prise that grew as he re-read volume after volume of 
 Vivian s writings, he discovered that he could no longer 
 assign to the elder author so high a place as he had 
 hitherto given him. It came upon him with a certain 
 shock that he had outgrown Vivian, that he had passed 
 beyond the stage in which such writing as Vivian s 
 was to be admired inevitably, and that perhaps, after 
 all, he had been setting too high a value upon Vivian s 
 work. Being modest, he distrusted his own judgment 
 at first, and read on and on, hoping to find reason to 
 return to his earlier estimate. Being honest, he had 
 to ask himself whether his feeling towards the author 
 hud not been changed perhaps by his knowledge that 
 the man was attentive to Esther Dircks. But he was 
 forced regretfully to the conclusion that Vivian s work 
 had limitations he had not seen before ; it was clever, 
 unfailingly clever, but cleverness itself no longer ap 
 pealed to him as it did when he was in college ; it was 
 shrewd, it was polished, and it was always as careful 
 as possible and this was perhaps why it now struck 
 Sartain as a little hard in its manner and as somewhat 
 monotonous. It was not superficial, and it was not 
 narrow, certainly ; but it did lack depth and breadth. 
 The ingenuity with which the stories were compounded 
 was obvious perhaps, indeed, it was only too evident ; 
 and Sartain saw that, if he were a hostile critic, he 
 would be tempted to call it almost mechanical. With 
 out being a hostile critic, with the utmost friendliness 
 for Vivian, with gratitude towards him for many kind-
 
 250 A CONFIDENT TO-MOEROW 
 
 nesses received, with a real liking for the man himself, 
 Sartain came sadly to the conclusion that the failing 
 of these novels he had once admired unhesitatingly 
 the fatal failing, as it seemed to him now was that 
 they lacked "the ruddy drop of human blood," as Lo 
 well had called it. Their damning defect was the ab 
 sence from their pages of any convincing portrayal of 
 humanity. 
 
 In other ways also those last weeks of the year were 
 a season of doubt and a time of reaction. There was 
 a change in the attitude of Esther Dircks towards 
 him ; he did not understand just what it was nor why 
 it should be, but he felt it of a certainty. After the 
 supper in the studio on Election night she was more 
 distant. Her mannea* had always been friendly, and 
 she had always greeted him as though glad to see him. 
 Sometimes Sartain had felt like resenting this equable 
 friendliness, as less promising towards a lover than an 
 obvious aloofness. But now that the friendliness had 
 chilled, now that the woman he loved apparently pre 
 ferred that there should be no approach to intimacy, 
 he was really distressed. When he met her at Vivian s, 
 or elsewhere, she was not exactly frigid, but her polite 
 ness was decidedly cold ; and when he called in Stuyve- 
 sant Square, as he did two or three times in the course 
 of November and December, her father happened al 
 ways to be at home, and she took little part in the 
 conversation. Once, when the talk went back to Elec 
 tion night, she asked him whose the words were of the 
 song he had sung "that pretty little Oriental lyric." 
 
 Reviews of Dust and Ashes continued to appear, but 
 they were none of them either very commendatory or 
 very condemnatory ; and in time Sartain came to ac-
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOBBOW 251 
 
 cept the fact that even if the book should sell fairly 
 well, it had failed absolutely to make the hit he had 
 hoped for. There were none of the outward signs that 
 evidence public interest in a novel, no paragraphs 
 about it in the literary notes of the newspapers, no 
 editorial discussion of its theme, no inquiry as to the 
 personality of the author, with anecdotes of his methods 
 of work, of his boyish precocity, of his dead mother, 
 and of his plans for the future. Dust and Ashes had 
 been received as most novels are received, nine-tenths 
 of which live a day and die and leave no trace ; and 
 there was nothing in its reception to tempt the author 
 to reveal his identity. 
 
 His position as editor of Manhattan had greatly in 
 creased Sartain s circle of acquaintance in New York. 
 He had been taken to more than one of the fortnightly 
 meetings of the Writers Club, he had been asked 
 two or three times to the Saturday nights of the Mil 
 lennium, and he had even been invited to take part in a 
 debate at the Contemporary. Although he was not of 
 a suspicious nature, sometimes he thought he detected 
 in those who made these advances a desire to be on 
 good terms with the editor of a journal like Manhattan, 
 which was constantly criticising the doings of its con 
 temporaries. 
 
 It was on the last Saturday of the year that he was 
 invited to a luncheon at the Millennium. That very 
 morning, as it chanced, the Gossip had published an 
 article on Dust and Ashes, which was by far the least 
 favorable Sartain had yet seen. It jeered at the ob 
 vious youth of the author, mocked at his enthusiasm, 
 sniffed at his style, and denounced his morality ; and 
 it supported some of its assertions by quotations in-
 
 232 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 geniously wrenched from their context. As Sartain 
 read it his face flushed as though he had been smitten 
 in a public place. Then he re-read it, and the gross in 
 decency of it revolted him, and its essential dishonesty 
 lay bare before him. Pitiful as it was, and contempti 
 ble, it was painful also ; and Sartain smiled sadly as he 
 asked himself whether an author who had been thus 
 excoriated ought to venture into the presence of the 
 public. 
 
 But he was greeted as though the Gossip did not 
 exist. He happened to sit next to the editor of the 
 Arctic Monthly, and, while they were smoking, the 
 editor dropped his voice and said that he was very glad 
 to meet Sartain, and that this was no time to talk 
 business, of course, but that he wished Sartain would 
 write him a paper on the government of American 
 cities for the March number, if lie could have it 
 ready then. 
 
 Long before the lunch -party left the book lined 
 private dining-room of the Millennium, the equanimity 
 of the young author was fully restored, and he was 
 able to enjoy the good cheer and good talk. 
 
 As he came down the broad marble stairs of the 
 sumptuous club-house, Vivian said to him, "Why not 
 walk up-town with me ? It s a beautiful afternoon, 
 and you can t have any work to do at the end of the 
 week." 
 
 They went to Fifth Avenue and turned up. It was 
 a beautiful afternoon, as Vivian had said clear, dry, 
 windless with the sun setting in fiery glory. Sartain 
 recalled his solitary walk up the avenue, more than 
 a year earlier, when he was alone in New York, and 
 was just going to pay his first visit to Vivian. How
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 253 
 
 many things had happened in those fourteen months ! 
 the meeting with Esther, the editing of Manhattan, 
 the publication of Dust and Ashes. 
 
 The recalling of his novel led him to ask Vivian if 
 he had seen the last Gossip. 
 
 "I wish I had seen the last of it/ was the answer; 
 it is unworthy to live. But I saw it gave you a good 
 notice this morning, if that is what you mean." 
 
 "A good notice?" Sartain repeated. "Why, the 
 savage scalped me !" 
 
 Vivian smiled. "It was about two columns long, 
 as I recall it," he said. " What can you ask for more ? 
 When you are as old as I am, and when your shelf 
 has as many books on it as mine has, then you will 
 know that a review is good in proportion to its length. 
 Whether it contains praise or blame is of little im 
 portance that is only one man s opinion. Of course, 
 the praise is pleasanter ; but the blame, however bit 
 ter, is better than nothing at all. What is really sig 
 nificant is the length of the article ; that measures the 
 angle the book subtends in the public eye." 
 
 " I see what you mean," Sartain admitted ; "but I 
 am not callous yet." 
 
 "And I am not either," the other confessed, frank 
 ly, " for all that I am twice your age, and have had 
 many more books killed under me. It was a counsel 
 of perfection I was giving you. Of course, the insult 
 hurts." 
 
 They walked on in silence for a few paces, and then 
 Vivian resumed : 
 
 "I have often thought that some authors are like 
 the crocodile that hides its eggs in the sand and never 
 cares what becomes of them ; while some other writers
 
 254 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 are devoted parents, who bring up their offspring by 
 hand and sit np with it all night, and sometimes find 
 it hard to carry it through the second summer. Real 
 ly, it does not matter which course you choose ; the 
 neglected egg may hatch out a masterpiece, and the 
 cherished babe may die in its cradle. Time alone can 
 decide ; we authors are powerless, and powerless are 
 the reviewers also fortunately. Just now it seems 
 to me that most of those who write about books in 
 the newspapers are old fogies who think literature 
 died with Sir Walter, or else fresh young men who 
 think it was born with Stevenson." 
 
 " There are more of the pert youngsters, I guess," 
 Sartain declared, "if I can judge from the notices of 
 my own book. Even when they are kindly and they 
 are mostly kindly they reveal their own inability to 
 understand and to appreciate." 
 
 "Yes," said the elder novelist, "they cannot help 
 showing the natural contempt clever and ignorant 
 young men have for their elders and betters. And 
 yet I have no reason to complain ; it is very rare that 
 I myself am not treated with courtesy nowadays. I 
 fancy that is one of the benefits of growing old ; they 
 pay me the respect due to age." 
 
 Sartain noticed how briskly Vivian walked and how 
 firmly, and he was surprised when the other turned to 
 him. 
 
 "I suppose the end of the year is not a melancholy 
 season to you," he said. " It is to me. Every De 
 cember now I have to count the friends and acquaint 
 ances who have fallen by the wayside at one or another 
 of the twelve mile-stones. When I meet a man I knew 
 twenty or thirty years ago, I want to shake hands
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 255 
 
 li ourtily and ask him to dinner. I think of getting up 
 a club to dine together on the last day of the year, and 
 to be called The Survivors. " 
 
 Sartain was surprised at the sadness in Vivian s 
 voice. It was a bright day, and the young man looked 
 forward to many years of delightful work. 
 
 "I do not know why you should be melancholy/ 7 
 he said, at last. "You are a successful man 
 
 " Am I ?" interrupted Vivian. " I am a lucky man 
 that I know; and I have had far more than my 
 share of the good things of life health and friends 
 and the use of money, and all that. I have been far 
 happier than I deserve, if I really deserved happiness 
 at all and that is a point on which I refuse to com 
 mit myself. But successful ? Have I been success 
 ful ?" 
 
 Sartain did not know what answer to make to this 
 personal appeal. 
 
 " Since I have begun to talk to you in this confiden 
 tial way," Vivian continued, " I might as well go on 
 and havo my say out. I have never confessed it be 
 fore to anybody, and I cannot see why I should to you, 
 but I do not think that I can fairly be called a suc 
 cessful author." 
 
 Sartain was about to protest and to ask for an ex 
 planation when Vivian went on. 
 
 "I know what you would say. I place all that I 
 write in the great magazines and I get the best prices. 
 That is true enough, so far as it goes. But my books 
 do not sell. I mean by that, that I have never writ 
 ten -a really popular novel. Xow and then a story of 
 mine has slowly crawled up to a sale of eight or nine 
 thousand copies, and there it sticks. Yet a sale of
 
 256 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 perhaps fifty thousand copies is quite possible, with 
 out breaking through the crust." 
 
 " Breaking through the crust ?" echoed Sartain. 
 
 " What I mean is this," Vivian explained. " Any 
 novel published by a well-established house ought to 
 sell a thousand or two copies, and if the author is also 
 well established it may sell ten thousand. The reading 
 circle in the United States is large enough to absorb 
 anywhere from twenty to fifty thousand of any book 
 it likes. But beyond fifty thousand it is hardly possi 
 ble to push a book. Yet if a novel happens to break 
 through the crust and to get outside of the circum 
 ference of the reading circle, which is more or less 
 literary, if it gets into circulation among the non- 
 literary outside public, then there is no guessing how 
 many copies of it may be sold, for the outside market 
 contains nearly seventy millions of people. Kow I 
 should have liked to write one book that really reached 
 my fellow-citizens that had a sale of a hundred thou 
 sand or so. I never have written it, and I suppose 
 that now I never shall." 
 
 He paused, and Sartain felt that he was expected to 
 offer some consolation. His honesty forbade, and he 
 kept silent. 
 
 "Of course, I do not blame the public, for not rush 
 ing to buy my wares," Vivian resumed; "the public 
 knows what it wants, and it knows that it does not 
 want my books. Of course, I never tried to guess at 
 the public taste, and to write a story in accord with my 
 guess. I have written always to please myself I have 
 written what I wanted to write. After all, I have had 
 my reward in the joy of my work." 
 
 Here Sartain was ready to agree with him. "I m
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKROW 257 
 
 glad to hear you say that/ he said ; " so many authors 
 complain of the strain and struggle of composition." 
 
 "Either they are insincere/ Vivian declared, "or 
 they are working against the grain, and their work is 
 probably worthless. There is no joy equal to the 
 craftsman s when he is doing his best. Sometimes I 
 have wondered why we should ever get paid for writ 
 ing ; it is such fun that we ought to be made to buy 
 the privilege. Nobody who reads a story of mine can 
 get a tithe of the pleasure out of it I had in its crea 
 tion." 
 
 " And do your characters take the bit in their 
 teeth/ asked the younger novelist, ""and run away 
 from you, and make love to each other and patch up 
 marriages you disapprove of, while you toil after them 
 breathless and happy ?" 
 
 " They are a most independent and arbitrary lot, 
 those children of our fancy," Vivian responded, as they 
 crossed the Plaza and turned down Fifty-ninth Street. 
 "And we love them dearly and never dare to disin 
 herit them. I wish the public would only take half 
 the interest in my lovers and in their quarrels and 
 reconciliations that I do." 
 
 Sartain left Vivian at the door of the great apart 
 ment-house that overlooked Central Park, after de 
 clining a pressing invitation to come up for a smoke. 
 As he walked down Fifth Avenue alone in the twi 
 light, now swiftly shutting in on the city, while the 
 electric lights twinkled ahead of him, he went over all 
 that Vivian had said to him. After a while he began 
 to see that perhaps the reason why Vivian s works had 
 not laid hold of people s hearts was because Vivian 
 was an artist only, and because he was a happy man. 
 
 17
 
 258 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 Vivian had not learned in sorrow what he told in 
 story ; he had never sounded the depths of emotion or 
 climbed the heights of sorrow. Then, with his habit 
 of making a personal application to himself, Sartain 
 asked whether or not his own literary future depend 
 ed on a tragedy in his life, whether or not the price 
 of the triumph of his literary ambition might not be 
 the failure of his wooing of Esther Dircks. He faced 
 the dilemma boldly, and he knew what choice he 
 would make should the devil proffer it. He would 
 sooner fail ignominiously, if he might marry Esther, 
 rather than succeed gloriously without her.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 So the old year drew to an end and passed away, 
 and a new year came, with fresh hopes, high anticipa 
 tion, and lofty resolutions. It brought no change for 
 the better to the journal that Sartain edited. In the 
 first number of the new volume appeared the opening 
 instalment of A Wolf at the Door. In spite of this at 
 traction, the circulation of Manhattan remained stag 
 nant ; now and then it rose a little, but more often 
 than not it fell. Both editor and publisher were as 
 economical as they dared to be, and yet the weekly de 
 ficit did not diminish. 
 
 A Wolf at the Door was published in brief instal 
 ments, a single chapter at a time, and the heroine, 
 although glimpsed fitfully in the earlier parts, did not 
 really appear on the stage of the story until the fifth 
 or sixth part. It was only in the seventh chapter that 
 her personal appearance was described at length, and 
 this was not published in Manhattan until nearly the 
 end of February. 
 
 In the two months he had seen Esther as often as he 
 could ; sometimes on Saturday at the Vivians , some 
 times on Sunday at her father s, sometimes during the 
 week at a private view, a concert, or a meeting of the 
 Contemporary. The last Sunday in February was the 
 first since the heroine of A Wolf at the Door had made
 
 260 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 her appearance, and Sartain went to Stuyvesant Square 
 that afternoon hoping that she had read his story, and 
 that she would see in it the evidence of the devotion 
 he felt for her. 
 
 As he was about to ring the bell, the door opened and 
 Dircks came out. " It s you/ the old man said, as he 
 shook hands with Sartain. " Esther s in. Mr. Adams 
 is visiting with her. I come out for air. I got to 
 walk, or I presume likely I ll choke." 
 
 The young man saw that Dircks was not looking 
 well ; he was thinner, and his clothes now hung about 
 his huge frame more loosely than ever. He was wilder 
 in his manner also, less ponderous, more brusque. Even 
 the external benignity Sartain had been struck by when 
 he first beheld the engraver was disappearing. There, 
 as he stood on the stoop, Dircks seemed almost fierce ; 
 he was a little like a great wild beast going forth from 
 his lair for a prowl. 
 
 " You are not feeling ill, are you ?" Sartain asked. 
 
 " I don t know what it is to be sick," Dircks an 
 swered. "I ain t never lost a day by sickness." 
 
 His tones were a little defiant, and so was his whole 
 manner. Again Sartain remarked how very white the 
 old man s eyeballs were, and how very black the pu 
 pils. The beetling eyebrows were bent as Dircks gazed 
 at him fixedly, and no longer were they in contradic 
 tion with his other features, the general impression of 
 which had been kindly hitherto. 
 
 " Perhaps you are a little tired," suggested Sartain. 
 " Have you been working too hard ?" 
 
 " I ain t worked at all this week," Dircks replied. 
 " There wa n t any work to do. Tain t often there is, 
 now."
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 261 
 
 I hope you are not worrying about the loss on the 
 paper/ Sartain began, seized by a sudden impulse to 
 sacrifice himself to the comfort of her father. 
 
 " Money don t worry me," Dircks answered, with a 
 growl. 
 
 " Because, if you were," the editor continued, "may 
 be we can cut down the expenses a little all round. I 
 guess Truax would take a shave off his salary, and I m 
 quite ready to have mine reduced to well, to half 
 what it is if if that s the best thing to do." 
 
 " Tain t the best thing," the old man responded. 
 " I know better. If you got a willing ox, and you want 
 to work him hard, you got to feed him." 
 
 " But so long as the paper is losing money," Sartain 
 urged, "I" 
 
 "No use talking," Dircks declared, with emphasis. 
 "You take money when you can get it." 
 
 " Oh, you mean I had best draw my full salary ?" he 
 asked. " Of course, if you think I had better, I I " 
 
 "Did you ever read the Bible ?" asked Dircks, fac 
 ing Sartain, menacingly. 
 
 The young man confessed that he was familiar with 
 the Bible. 
 
 "Then you know that piece about Lazarus," Dircks 
 continued. "First off, he sat at the rich man s gate 
 and he was hungry. Now, no man knows what that is 
 if he ain t been hungry himself. Last of all, Lazarus, 
 he goes to heaven, and the rich man he goes to tor 
 ment. Now, that s right that s gospel truth. That s 
 the rich man s place in torment that s where it is ! 
 The poor man, he got his torment here in this world." 
 
 Sartain was puzzled to understand the exact bearing 
 of this outburst.
 
 262 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 " That s why I tell you," Dircks resumed, " yon get 
 money when you can. You get it from me that don t 
 matter any. I never could keep it, anyhow." 
 
 Then he shook hands again with the young man and 
 bade him go up-stairs, where Esther would be glad to 
 see him. 
 
 He had left the door of the house open behind him, 
 and Sartain entered. He groped his way up the stairs, 
 always dark on a winter afternoon. As he came tow 
 ards the door of the Dircks s parlor he heard Adams s 
 voice, unusually plaintive in its tone, he thought, al 
 though he did not catch the words. Just as he was 
 about to knock he heard Esther s voice answering Ad 
 ams s, and this time Sartain could not help hearing 
 what she was saying. 
 
 "No, no, no," she declared, with gentle emphasis. 
 I can t. I ve told you so before, and 
 
 Then there was a sudden silence after Sartain s rap. 
 
 Esther was startled by its unexpectedness. " Oh !" 
 she cried, and, after a moment s hesitation, she added, 
 " Come in !" 
 
 When he entered the room he found Esther seated 
 in the arrn-chair near the window, while Adams was 
 standing by the fireplace in a constrained attitude. It 
 struck the new-comer that the girl was ill at ease also. 
 With feminine adaptability, she recovered her self- 
 possession more rapidly than the painter, who stood 
 scowling blackly at the new-comer, as though resent 
 ing the interruption. 
 
 Esther smiled at Sartain, and held out her hand. 
 
 " Do you know, your knock really took me so by 
 surprise I almost jumped," she said. 
 
 "I ought to explain how it was I didn t ring," he
 
 A COXFIDEXT TO-MOBEOW 263 
 
 returned. " It was your father. I met him at the 
 door, and we had a little chat, and he told me to come 
 right up. I m sorry I was so inconsiderate. I might 
 have known better. I I beg your pardon." 
 
 " It s absurd for me to be so nervous/ she responded,, 
 with an assumption of liveliness. 
 
 " It isn t," broke in Adams, gruffly, as though exag 
 gerating his ill-humor to hide it. " Sartain ought to 
 proffer an apology in writing." As he said this he 
 ruffled up his curly hair with an automatic gesture. 
 
 Then Sartain guessed what it was that he had done, 
 and the awkwardness of the situation was made plain 
 to him. He wished that he had come a little earlier or 
 a little later ; he regretted that he had come at all ; he 
 blushed scarlet as he perceived the indelicacy of his. 
 intrusion at such a moment. He stood there still and 
 tongue-tied, hoping that neither of the others would 
 suspect that he had divined the cause of their con 
 straint. 
 
 There was a self-conscious silence for half a minute,, 
 as though no one knew exactly what ought to be said, 
 and hoped that one of the others would speak first. 
 Then both Esther and Sartain began at once. 
 
 Sartain discovered that he had not greeted Adams 
 yet, and what he said was, "How are you ? How are 
 you ?" 
 
 Esther observed that both of the men were stand 
 ing. "Why don t you two sit down ?" she cried. " It 
 makes me so tired to see people on their feet all the 
 time." 
 
 Sartain took his place on the settee facing the man 
 tel-piece, and Adams acknowledged his greeting by 
 saying, " How are you ? I m all right."
 
 264 A CONFIDENT TO-MOEKOW 
 
 Then the artist straightened himself and took the 
 authorized position of a man standing before a fire 
 with his hands behind him. " Why should I sit down ?" 
 he asked. "I m as happy here as a Roman fisherman 
 in Lent." 
 
 "How did you think father was looking to-day?" 
 asked Esther, turning to Sartain. 
 ? " Well/ he replied, trying not to alarm her, " I have 
 seen him looking better, I think." 
 
 " I m really very much worried about him," she re 
 turned. " I don t know what has come over him. I ve 
 never seen him so before. He is restless now, and he 
 seems anxious all the time. He tells me he isn t fret 
 ting about anything ; but he does not sleep well, and 
 he eats scarcely anything." 
 
 "Perhaps he has been working too hard," suggested 
 Adams, in a more natural tone. 
 
 "Yes," she answered ; "he has shut himself up in 
 his workshop there more than ever lately ; and what is 
 very curious is that he doesn t show me what he has 
 been doing. He used to, always. He liked to let me help 
 him pull a proof, and he wanted my opinion. Now I 
 don t know just what it is he has been working at." 
 
 Sartain remembered that Dircks had just told him 
 there was little or no work to be had now. 
 
 "I don t suppose it s counterfeit money he s making 
 in there," Adams suggested, with a certain bravado in 
 his manner, as though he was quite aware that he was 
 talking for effect. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Adams !" protested Esther. 
 
 " I said I didn t suppose it was," the artist explained, 
 " not but what counterfeiting is as honorable a means 
 of making money as many others that are tolerated."
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 265 
 
 "I expect to find you defending highway-robbery 
 next," she retorted. 
 
 " I am willing to admit that the burglar s calling has 
 many alluring characteristics/ said Adams. " On the 
 whole, however, it is not so intellectual a craft as the 
 detective s, is it ? That is why I think I should make 
 an ideal detective it s because of my alert intelligence. 
 I believe I should be about as hard to deceive as a 
 Scottish - American Jew, if such a monstrous entity 
 could exist. Zekiel McLevi would be his name, of 
 course." 
 
 Esther and Sartain laughed at this, as they were ex 
 pected to do ; and artificial as Adams s talk was, it 
 served to relieve the strain they all felt. 
 
 The editor saw two or three numbers of Manhattan 
 on the table at Esther s elbow; and he was glad to 
 think that, perhaps, just before Adams had arrived, 
 she had been reading about herself as she was de 
 scribed in A Wolf at the Door. 
 
 " I see you keep up with the best literature of the 
 day," he said, jestingly, as he indicated the Manhattan. 
 
 " Generally I do," she answered ; "but I have been 
 so busy the past month I haven t had time even to 
 read the morning paper." 
 
 Sartain was deeply disappointed, but he could not 
 pursue the subject. 
 
 "Do you call that a good newspaper of yours ?" 
 usked Adams. 
 
 " Don t you ?" was Sartain s response. 
 
 " Well," said the artist with the deliberation which 
 indicated to those who knew him well that he was fit 
 ting a shaft to his bow, " I suppose it is a pretty good 
 newspaper, if you believe that no news is good news."
 
 266 A COXFIDEXT TO-MORKOW 
 
 "If that gets into circulation/ retorted the editor, 
 laughing, " I shall have to suborn an art critic to 
 abuse the next picture you exhibit. 
 
 " Then I should heap coals of fire on your head," 
 Adams replied. "I d buy a copy, and double your 
 circulation !" 
 
 As though pleased with this thrust, and willing to let 
 it be the climax, he left his place before the fire and 
 went towards Esther. 
 
 "I can t waste my afternoon scattering diamonds 
 and rubies for you all the time," he said. " I ve got 
 an engagement at the club at five." 
 
 "You can t better that last cut," Esther told him, 
 as she gave him her hand. 
 
 "Oh yes, I can," he declared, "if I had time. You 
 don t know what I can do in that way when I give my 
 mind up to it." 
 
 When he had gone, Sartain hoped for a pleasant talk 
 with Esther. But the conversation soon took a turn he 
 did not like. She insisted upon discussing the Vivians, 
 chiefly the father and the elder daughter. She went 
 out of her way to praise Johnny, asserting that she had 
 come to know the girl better during their summer in 
 Europe, and assuring him that she was really very wom 
 anly, in spite of her little mannish assumptions. 
 
 Esther s laudation of another woman, whom Sartain 
 did not care for, rather annoyed him. When he was 
 alone with the girl he wanted to talk about himself, or 
 to have her talk about herself. He enjoyed any ex 
 change of confidence, as a proof of their increasing 
 intimacy. One of Esther s remarks led him to suspect 
 that she thought he had sung the Bedouin song for 
 Johnny s special benefit; and he would have liked to
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 267 
 
 explain at once that he had sung for her alone, that it 
 was the thought of her which had charged his voice 
 with emotion, that it was to her he had addressed that 
 burning lyric appeal. He was tempted almost beyond 
 resistance to drop on his knees there at her feet now 
 to tell her that he adored her, and that he had loved 
 her since the first day he had seen her. 
 
 The excess of his feelings interfered again with the 
 clearness of his speech. He cut off one sentence short, 
 and ended another with a straggling word or two. 
 
 Then Esther left Johnny for a while and began to 
 praise Mr. Vivian. She declared that nobody could 
 have been kinder than he was while they were in 
 Europe, or more considerate, and that often he thought 
 of her comfort, and of what she wanted, before he 
 thought of his own daughters. 
 
 Sartain s jealousy blazed high as she commended 
 the man whom he knew to be a most dangerous rival. 
 
 "Well/ he suggested, "he is old enough to be 
 your father." 
 
 "But he doesn t look it, does he ?" she returned. 
 
 "I don t know how old he is, really," Sartain ad 
 mitted, "but it did not surprise me to find that he 
 had a daughter as old as Miss Joan." 
 
 " If he docs look older than he is," said the girl, 
 shifting her ground, " it s not to be wondered at, con 
 sidering what he has gone through." 
 
 " I thought he had led a very calm life," Sartain 
 returned "the placid career of a successful man of 
 letters." 
 
 "But he was in the war, too," she replied. "And 
 the sights of that dreadful time would be enough to 
 age anybody, I m sure."
 
 268 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 " I remember now that he was in the army," he 
 acknowledged. " He looks so little like a soldier that 
 I had forgotten it." 
 
 "And do you know how it was he came to be a 
 soldier ?" she asked. " That s the finest thing I ever 
 heard of. He was a young man when the war broke 
 out, and he was alone in Europe, and in those days he 
 was very poor ; 
 
 " It was his wife who had the fortune, I believe, 
 said Sartain, a little maliciously. 
 
 " He wasn t married then," she resumed, and, as I 
 said, he was very, very poor. He wanted to come 
 home at once and enlist, but he hadn t any money. 
 So he shipped as a common sailor at Marseilles, and 
 he came back that way before the mast, you call it, 
 don t you ?" 
 
 Sartain had no hesitation in acknowledging that 
 this was really a fine thing to do. He wondered how 
 it was that he had never heard of it. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Vivian never talks about it," she cried. 
 " It was Johnny who told me. Johnny is perfectly 
 devoted to her father. You must get her to tell you 
 all about it some day." 
 
 He wanted to be able to assure her that he would 
 rather hear even bad news from her than the best of 
 good tidings from Johnny. He remarked the anima 
 tion in her face as she spoke of Johnny, and the in 
 tensity of her expression. He saw that the one little 
 vagabond wisp of her ashen - gold hair had escaped 
 again, and he waited for the easy gesture with which 
 she replaced it. 
 
 " Johnny was just like an elder sister to me," she 
 said, " during all those months when I was away with
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 269 
 
 them. Xobody could have been nicer. I love her 
 dearly." 
 
 Then Sartain recalled the conversation with Johnny, 
 in which she had wondered what it was that made 
 Esther so fascinating, and in which she had said that 
 she loved Esther dearly. 
 
 He stayed there for half an hour longer, in spite of 
 the fact that Esther persisted in talking about the 
 Vivians. Even when he got up to go at last, he stood 
 for ten minutes with his hand on the handle of the 
 door, while they discussed the taste and the richness 
 with which the Vivians apartment was furnished. 
 
 Sartain confessed that he was very sensitive to the 
 influence of unaccustomed surroundings, and that the 
 delicacy of the furniture and the general air of luxury 
 which enveloped him the first time he called there 
 had made him feel out of place, as though he were of 
 clay too coarse to be a fit associate for people used to 
 things of that sort. And then Esther admitted that 
 she too had been impressed in much the same way. 
 Upon this sympathy, under novel circumstances, their 
 talk flowed on with more warmth than before, until 
 she again praised Johnny, and then he took his leave 
 at last. 
 
 lie strode away from the house in Stuyvesant Square 
 in a warmish rain, soft and gentle as though it knew 
 itself to be a forerunner of spring. Passion was strong 
 in his veins, and he had almost a physical ache from 
 its tension. It was the love of Esther Direks that he 
 wanted with all the force of his nature lier love, and 
 not her friendship. And he saw clearly that it was 
 her friendship only that she was proffering him. 
 
 While he walked away in the soothing rain, ready
 
 270 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 to take all nature to witness the strength of his pas 
 sion, he could not guess that he had left her thrilling 
 with the touch of his hand as he bade her farewell, 
 and that all unconsciously she was longing for the 
 clasp of his arm about her, or for any masculine ad 
 vance that would assure her of his love of the love 
 that she thought was another s. He could not sus 
 pect that she sat down where he had been sitting be 
 cause he had sat there, or that she should remember 
 that he had held the door-knob in his hand for the 
 final minutes of their talk, and that therefore, after a 
 virginal glance around, to make sure no one could see 
 her, she had stooped and kissed it once and again.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 ABOUT the middle of March there was a strike of 
 the street-car employees of a city near to New York ; 
 and in this struggle the inhabitants of the metropolis 
 took the liveliest interest. Exactly what the merits 
 of the contest might be, it was difficult to declare. In 
 the main, the sympathy of the public was with the 
 strikers, especially in the beginning, and there was a 
 general expectation that the company would submit 
 the matter to arbitration. But in interviews and in 
 letters to the newspapers the president of the street- 
 railroad asserted that the company proposed to manage 
 its own business, that, its employees having thrown up 
 their engagements, the places were now vacant, and 
 that the officials intended at once to replace the old 
 men with new. 
 
 For the first two or three days the cars did not run, 
 and the public put up with the inconvenience with but 
 little grumbling, hoping for a speedy settlement in 
 favor of the employees. Then the new drivers and 
 conductors were sent out at long intervals, and were 
 jeered at from the sidewalks and insulted at the cor 
 ners. When more and more cars began to appear, the 
 strikers could not stand by in patience and see new 
 comers snatching the bread out of their mouths. The 
 green hands were stoned at first from a distance ; then
 
 272 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKROW 
 
 they were knocked off the platforms and kicked and 
 beaten. After a long delay the city authorities granted 
 police protection to the new men, and two and three 
 and four officers rode on every car that went out of 
 the stables. As the number of cars increased, so did 
 the animosity of the men who had left the company s 
 employ ; and in their overt acts they were joined by all 
 the roughs and toughs that lurk in the holes and cor 
 ners of a city nowadays, ready always to break the law, 
 with no choice as to the law they are ready to break. 
 Before the end of the second week of the strike there 
 had been five deaths by violence ; one of these was 
 charged against the police, and four against the strik 
 ers, or those acting in their behalf. The sympathies 
 of the public changed about ; the National Guard was 
 ordered out, and everybody who was familiar with the 
 course of similar contests knew that the end was near 
 and that the strikers would have to accept the inev 
 itable. 
 
 Sartain was keenly interested in the struggle. He 
 investigated personally, and satisfied himself that the 
 conduct of the company had been indefensible, and 
 that the claims of the men, although overstated by 
 them, were supported by the facts. He wrote two edi 
 torial articles for the next number of Manhattan. One 
 called for a special committee from the Legislature at 
 Albany to investigate the actual cost of the street-rail 
 roads, as a basis for their future expropriation by the 
 city, the grantor of the franchises which made them 
 valuable. The other was a declaration of the suprem 
 acy of the law, and an assertion that order must be 
 maintained at any cost; it justified the use of the 
 police and the militia to protect the property and the
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 273 
 
 new employees of the company ; and it urged the 
 strikers to refrain from the outrages which could bring 
 only discredit upon their cause. 
 
 Manhattan was published on Thursday morning, and 
 it went to press the day before. Sartain was methodi 
 cal and regular ; he tried to complete the make-up as 
 early as he could on Wednesday morning, and gener 
 ally he managed to order the paper to press before 
 noon. He had done so on the day when he had made 
 up Manhattan with the articles inspired by the street 
 car strike; but when he returned from his luncheon he 
 found Dircks awaiting him in conversation with Truax. 
 
 " I m very glad you ve come back at last, Frank," 
 cried the publisher. "I m. trying to get Mr. Dircks 
 here to listen to reason." 
 
 " What s the matter ?" Sartain asked. 
 
 " He wants us to back up those rioters," Truax ex 
 plained ; "to stick to them through thick and thin, 
 even if they are killing people every day." 
 
 " Well," returned the editor, " what did you say to 
 that ?" 
 
 " I was telling him that it s no good our supporting 
 the strikers," Truax went on. " There s no money 
 in that for us, is there ? They won t buy a copy, no 
 matter how much we praise them. Manhattan is a 
 ten-cent paper, and car-drivers have no use for it." 
 
 " I didn t know we had this paper just to praise 
 people who had ten cents to buy it," said Dircks, with 
 feeling. "I thought we had this paper to help the 
 poor man." 
 
 Sartain saw that the old man was excited, as though 
 the restlessness of the past few weeks had now corne 
 to a climax. The large hairy hand grasped the um- 
 
 18
 
 274 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 brella with fingers that opened and shut nervously. 
 The white of the old man s eyes seemed whiter than 
 ever before, and the pupils were blacker and more 
 fiery. The protruding thatch of the great eyebrows 
 came down low as he bent his penetrating gaze on the 
 publisher and then on the editor. 
 
 " That s what I thought, too," Sartain replied ; 
 "Manhattan is to tell the truth and shame the devil. 
 It is to stand up for the down-trodden, and it is to 
 denounce the grasping wickedness of the fraudulent 
 money-makers. But it is to be honest to its own con 
 victions first of all, isn t it ? It is to be honest with 
 itself." 
 
 Dircks listened to him in silence, only to repeat, 
 " Honest ? Honest ? What do you mean by honest ?" 
 
 " I mean that we must be as fair to the rich man as 
 the poor man/ Sartain returned. "What is sauce for 
 the goose ought to be sauce for the gander, oughtn t 
 it ? If we attack the robber barons because they set 
 themselves above the law, we must also call the strik 
 ers to order when they put themselves outside the law. 
 That s fair, isn t it ?" 
 
 " What s fair ?" asked Dircks, raising his voice. 
 For the soldiers to shoot a man down in the street ?" 
 
 " But the man would not be shot," urged Sartain, 
 "if he were not engaged in assaulting another man." 
 
 "Another man?" Dircks retorted. "Do you call 
 a scab a man ? It s a scab he s kicking. No decent 
 man would be a scab, would he ?" 
 
 "A decent man may be so desperately hard up that 
 he is ready to do anything to get bread for his chil 
 dren," Sartain answered. 
 
 "The fellow that s willing to keep another man s
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 275 
 
 job/ said Dircks, shrilly, "he s too good to be kicked ; 
 he ought to be killed; he deserves all he gets !" 
 
 Sartain was taken aback by this extreme vehemence. 
 
 "But, Mr. Dircks," he responded, "this is a free 
 country, after all, and a man has a right to work for 
 low wages if he chooses. If he would sooner be paid 
 badly than not paid at all, I don t see what we can 
 do. As fast as we can we ve got to change the con 
 ditions that allow some men to roll in riches while 
 other men are let down to the starvation level. But 
 until we can advance civilization that far, I don t see 
 what right we have to prevent any man s working for 
 any wages he is willing to accept. These strikers say 
 that they can t live on what they are getting, and they 
 quit : that s all right. These other men say that they 
 are very glad to take what the strikers reject ; that s 
 a pity ; but we can t interfere, can we ?" 
 
 The old man had listened to Sartain impatiently, 
 and now he broke forth strenuously : "We don t need 
 to interfere. We got only to keep our hands off. The 
 strikers, they ll settle the scabs quick enough, if we 
 let em alone !" 
 
 " But surely you would not allow men to be mur 
 dered in the street, would you ?" cried the editor. 
 
 "There wouldn t be any murdering if the police 
 wa n t there," the old man answered. " There ain t a 
 scab would dare to come out." 
 
 " It seems to me the scabs have rights, too," Sartain 
 urged. " They are men, after all ; they have wives 
 and children, and " 
 
 " Then why don t they let another man s job alone ?" 
 interrupted Dircks. " That s easy enough, ain t it ? 
 I know it s hard for the man whose job is taken away.
 
 276 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 You don t know. I do. Yon ain t gone through that. 
 I have. You ain t seen your women folks hungry. I 
 have. You don t know." 
 
 "No/ admitted Sartain. "I have had no personal 
 experience. No doubt, it is hard 
 
 "Hard?" broke in Dircks. "Hard? I saw my 
 wife die ! She died because I didn t have money ! 
 That would have saved her life, the doctor said. I 
 hadn t got it. Why should other men have money to 
 buy the lives of their wives and their children, and I 
 not have it ? That s what I want to know. She died, 
 and money would have saved her, and I knew it, and 
 she knew it. If I could have stolen it, of course I d 
 done it ; but I hadn t the chance then. When she 
 wanted what money could buy, there wa n t nobody had 
 a better right to it than she had. That s what I say ! 
 And when she died, because I couldn t get money to 
 take her South, then I quit praying. What good was 
 God to me ? He let my wife die, and he give men in 
 Wall Street millions and millions." 
 
 To this outbreak neither Sartain nor Truax could 
 make any appropriate answer. Sartain especially was 
 pained by the violence of the old man s speech ; he 
 was thinking of Esther. 
 
 After a silence which seemed very long to the two 
 others, Dircks continued in a little lower key, but with 
 his voice still revealing his intense excitement. 
 
 " Well, what are you going to do about it ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "About what ?" returned Sartain. 
 
 "What are you going to say about this shooting 
 down men?" he cried. "What kind of a piece are 
 you going to put in the paper ?"
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 277 
 
 "I have written two articles," the editor explained; 
 " one suggesting that the city should take possession 
 of the road, paying only what its real value is, less the 
 value of the franchise fraudulently acquired 
 
 "That s good/ agreed Dircks ; "the city ought to 
 take it, but it hadn t ought to pay a cent for it!" 
 
 "And then I have a second article," said Sartain, 
 "regretting that the company has refused to arbitrate, 
 and declaring that it is now the duty of all good citi 
 zens to see that order is restored and the supremacy 
 of the law maintained." 
 
 "That means you re on the side of the police and 
 the soldiers ?" asked Dircks, slowly and in a lower 
 voice. 
 
 " If you put it that way," the editor admitted. " I 
 suppose that is what it does mean. Manhattan is on 
 the side of law and order " 
 
 "Law and order!" repeated Dircks, with contempt 
 uous hostility. " Law and order ! I know what law 
 is. There ain t anybody knows that better than I do. 
 When I was in the army, I was paymaster for a while, 
 and the rebels got my money away from me, and I 
 couldn t prove it and the law said I was a thief !" 
 
 This, then, was the mystery which had hung over 
 Dircks s career in the army ; this was why he took no 
 part in the gatherings of his former comrades ; this 
 was why he refused to talk over even with his daugh 
 ter his experiences during the war. Ordinarily Sar- 
 tain was not swift to see all the bearings of a state 
 ment ; but now he perceived at once that he had hold 
 of the cause of many of the peculiarities of Esther s 
 father hitherto inexplicable. 
 
 " It ain t no wonder I ain t no high idea of the law,"
 
 278 A CONFIDENT TO-MOEBOW 
 
 Dircks went on. " I ain t any better opinion of the 
 law than the law had of me. I got no call to fight for 
 the law. If it s the law that s keeping the man whose 
 job is taken away from killing the scab that took it, if 
 it s the law that s doing that kind of dirty work, so 
 much the worse for the law. It ain t the first time 
 the law has come down heavy on a good man, nor the 
 second, neither. I know what the law is. I suffered 
 the law myself." 
 
 Truax tried to relieve the tension by an ill-timed 
 jest. 
 
 "Mr. Dircks," he suggested, "I guess you are a 
 little like that newly landed Irishman who wanted to 
 know whether we had a government here, because if 
 we had he was agin it." 
 
 "What has the government done for me ?" the old 
 man retorted. Wa n t it the government made the 
 law that called me a thief ? Wa n t it the government 
 let men in Wall Street have millions and millions when 
 I hadn t a hundred dollars to buy my wife s life?" 
 
 It seemed to Sartain that Dircks was really getting 
 more and more excited as the discussion continued, and 
 that the sooner it could be brought to an end the 
 better. 
 
 " I am very sorry that we don t agree better about 
 these things," he began. "I don t defend our present 
 social organization as an ideal system I know well 
 enough that it is full of defects ; but, on the other 
 hand, I think that progress is possible only along legal 
 lines, and 
 
 "And you have put a piece in the paper saying the 
 police and the soldiers ought to shoot men down in the 
 streets ?" Dircks broke in. " Is that printed yet ?"
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 279 
 
 " No," Sartain answered. "It is not printed yet 
 but I have sent the forms to the press/ 
 
 " Then you can stop it now ?" the old man inquired, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Yes/ Sartain responded. "I could stop it now 
 if I wished to do so." 
 
 "Will you stop it ?" Dircks asked. "Will you take 
 it out, and stand up for the men whose jobs are taken 
 away ?" 
 
 "Mr. Dircks, I would like to meet your views," 
 said the young editor, slowly and seriously. " But I 
 can t." 
 
 " You can t ?" almost shrieked Dircks, rising to his 
 feet. " Why not ?" 
 
 " Because in that article I have said what I thought 
 I ought to say, and because I have not changed my 
 opinion since I wrote it," was the firm response. 
 
 The old man stepped forward. " Tain t your money 
 that s been spent on the paper." 
 
 Sartain stood up and faced him. 
 
 " It is your money, I know," he said ; " but it was 
 clearly understood that I was to be responsible for the 
 editorial opinions." 
 
 " Then you won t change it ?" the old man asked, 
 harshly, with his great eyes piercing the other from 
 under his overhanging eyebrows. 
 
 "I can t," was the young man s answer, as he faced 
 the fierce gaze of the father of the woman he loved. 
 
 There was silence while the two men stood there 
 looking into each other s eyes. 
 
 " I guess it s better to be on the side of the law 
 makers than the law-breakers," said Truax, again en- 
 deavorino- to relieve the tension.
 
 280 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 Finally Sartain made a swift resolution. He swal 
 lowed once or twice, and then he said, " The paper is 
 yours, Mr. Dircks I don t deny it. So long as I am 
 editor, I must write what I think. But if you disap 
 prove of what I write, there is no reason why I should 
 be editor any longer. I am ready to resign the posi 
 tion at any time now, if you wish it." 
 
 The old man continued to look at him while he was 
 taking in this suggestion ; and there was another si 
 lence, which Truax did not break. 
 
 " Resign ?" said Dircks, at last. " Eesign ? What 
 for ?" 
 
 " So that you can put another editor in my place/ 
 Sartain replied ; " somebody who will be more in ac 
 cord with you." 
 
 " Tain t no good resigning," the old man returned. 
 " Tain t no use of talking of somebody else. The pa 
 per s got to stop, that s all !" 
 
 " Got to stop !" echoed both the editor and the pub 
 lisher. 
 
 "It s got to stop," repeated Dircks. "That s what 
 I said." 
 
 " Why ?" asked Sartain. 
 
 " Why ?" the old man repeated again, as he picked 
 up his hat. "Because the money s all gone. That s 
 why. I can t pay after this week, any way." 
 
 " What are we to do ?" cried Truax. 
 
 " You do what you did before I started in," Dircks 
 returned. " You can t get the police and the soldiers 
 to make me pay out, week after week, when I got no 
 more money can you ? You can t get the law to call 
 me a thief again, because I quit when I got through 
 can you ?"
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORHOW 281 
 
 With these pointed questions Dircks made his way 
 towards the door. 
 
 " Hold on a minute/ Sartain requested. 
 
 " Well ?" said the old man, halting on the threshold, 
 a pitiful figure, so he seemed to Sartain, with the 
 clothes hanging on his tall, shrunken frame. 
 
 " This is your final word, then ?" the young editor 
 asked. " You have uo more money to spend on Man 
 hattan, and you want it stopped ?" 
 
 "I don t want it stopped," was the answer. "I 
 don t care what you do with it now. I m through with 
 it. And if I had money, I wouldn t put a cent more 
 into a paper that stood up for law." 
 
 "But there are articles on hand that are paid for, 
 and there are advertising accounts to be collected 
 are there not ?" and the editor appealed to the pub 
 lisher. 
 
 - Lots of "em," was Truax s prompt reply. 
 
 Then let me try and sell the paper for you," urged 
 Sartain. " Perhaps I can get a fair price for it. Per 
 haps I can get you back some of the money you have 
 lost in it." 
 
 "I don t care what you do with it," Dircks an 
 swered, as he walked slowly out of the office. 
 
 Sartain and Truax looked at each other in silence 
 for a moment, and then the latter laughed. 
 
 " This is perfectly ridiculous," he quoted, and then 
 laughed again. 
 
 " It s hard on you, old man," said Sartain, laying his 
 hand on the other s shoulder. " I feel as if I had 
 brought you East under false pretences." 
 
 " Don t you worry about me," was the answer. " I ve 
 got nine lives, and I drop on my feet every time. I
 
 282 A CONFIDENT TO-MORKOW 
 
 didn t tell you before, bnt there s a new man bought 
 the Upper Ten, and he wants me to join him. Of 
 course, I wasn t thinking of leaving you, but if Man 
 hattan s going up, I might as well go over to the Upper 
 Ten. He s to clean out the gang they have on it now, 
 and make a decent paper of it." 
 
 Sartain could think quickly sometimes. "Why 
 shouldn t he buy Manhattan, too, and consolidate it 
 with the Upper Ten 9" he asked. 
 
 "That s so," said Truax. "Why not? Shall I go 
 and see him and drop a hint or two that perhaps Man 
 hattan could be purchased ?" 
 
 This was agreed upon, and Truax took his hat at 
 once and started off down-town. 
 
 Sartain did not worry about his own prospects, lie 
 had saved money, and he knew that he had raised his 
 reputation as a trustworthy literary workman. He did 
 not believe it would be long before something would be 
 secured by an energetic young man, who had prepared 
 a successful subscription book for Oarington & Com 
 pany, who had edited Manhattan and immensely im 
 proved it, and who had written Dust and Ashes and A 
 Wolf at the Door. Perhaps he might even join the 
 staff of the reorganized Upper Ten. What did depress 
 his spirits was the knowledge that Dircks had lost all 
 the money he had in the paper the young man had 
 edited. Sartain had done his best ; and none the less 
 did he feel in some measure responsible. He wished 
 he had ascertained before they went into this journal 
 istic venture just how much money it was the old man 
 had.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE next day Manhattan appeared as usual ; and 
 Truax reported to Sartain "that he thought he could 
 tempt the new owner of the Upper Ten to make a fair 
 offer for Manhattan also. The editor and the publisher 
 determined to get out the paper as best they could 
 without the money Dircks had habitually provided. 
 Sartain decided to print a double instalment of his 
 own serial every week for the present, and, indeed, to 
 write the most of the next number himself, buying 
 nothing from chance contributors, and so utilizing the 
 stock of articles on hand that it would last three or 
 four weeks. The newspapers had announced in the 
 morning that the car-strike was virtually over. He 
 was glad to think that there might be no necessity 
 for him again to comment upon it editorially. So far 
 as possible, he wished to insert in Manhattan nothing 
 that Dircks would not approve of. But he no longer 
 felt sure that he could declare the things in which he 
 and the old man were in accord. He wondered how 
 far their apparent agreement had been due to the fact 
 that Dircks did not formulate his opinions, but con 
 tented himself with accepting those advanced by the 
 future editor. Yet it struck him as likely also that 
 the divergence between them had been growing wider 
 and wider as Dircks had brooded on his wrongs and as
 
 284 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 he had hardened and stiffened in his old age, while 
 Sartain knew himself to be but a young man, gaining 
 in wisdom with experience, already aware that much of 
 his boyish iconoclasm was rather foolish, and willing 
 now to admit that the world cannot be remade at a 
 moment s notice. He saw many abuses to be assaulted, 
 and he was as willing as ever to lead a charge against 
 them, for he was unfailingly hopeful. The old man 
 had lived his life almost to the end, and hope had 
 been buffeted out of him. 
 
 The more Sartain reflected the more he thought it 
 likely that Manhattan had been supported by Esther s 
 inheritance from her grandmother ; and he wondered 
 how it was that he had not suspected this at first. He 
 believed that the old man, having no respect for pri 
 vate property, would unhesitatingly make use of any 
 money which might be under his control. Thinking 
 that wealth ought to belong to him who needs it 
 at the moment, Dircks would attempt no conceal 
 ment ; he would help himself to his daughter s fort 
 une frankly, almost openly, and with no sense of wrong 
 doing. 
 
 Sartain was inclined to think that Esther would bear 
 the loss with perfect fortitude. She had the slim 
 strength of a Toledo blade, and its suppleness. He re 
 called Johnny s nickname for her, "Miss Cartilage," 
 and dismissed it as absurdly inapplicable. She had 
 the flame of her father, for all that she might seem 
 fragile and ethereal. He doubted even whether she 
 would feel any resentment towards the old man, and 
 whether, indeed, she would not be inclined to accept 
 his views as to the duties and rights of guardians. 
 
 He could not but feel his own unworthiness to as-
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 285 
 
 pire towards a maiden so delicate, so pure, so far above 
 him. He could not but confess his own presumption 
 in thinking it possible that she should ever be taken 
 with him. He could not but acknowledge that he had 
 really nothing to offer her, nothing to tempt her with 
 nothing except his love. His love was so intense 
 that as he sat there in the little office at the top of the 
 shabby old building in Union Square, as he looked out 
 on the bare trees in the oval park, just making ready 
 to bud forth, he longed for her until his yearning was 
 almost unbearable. 
 
 Then he came to a solemn resolution. He would 
 tell her that he loved her, and he would tell her the 
 very first time he saw her. She might refuse him 
 she would refuse him, no doubt but at least he would 
 have let her know what his feelings towards her were. 
 To tell her would be an immense relief to him, what 
 ever her answer might be ; and he reminded himself 
 that there could be but little uncertainty about it. 
 Young as he was, and hopeful, he had never dared to 
 hope that Esther was interested in him. 
 
 In the afternoon he left the office early and walked 
 up -town. He held Vivian to be a friend of good 
 counsel ; and he thought it possible that the elder 
 novelist might be able to suggest another possible pur 
 chaser for Manhattan. 
 
 But when he had rung at the door of the apartment, 
 the white-capped maid told him that Mr. Vivian and 
 all three of the young ladies had gone for a drive. 
 Was there any message Mr. Sartain might wish to 
 leave ? Mr. Sartain left word that he wanted a few 
 minutes conversation with Mr. Vivian, and that he 
 would call again the next afternoon.
 
 286 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 When the elevator came up to take him down, a 
 young lady stepped out. It was Esther Dircks. 
 
 "Oh!" she cried. "How are you, Mr. Sartain ?" 
 and a little blush flowered in her cheeks and perished. 
 "Are Dora and Theo in, do you know ?" 
 
 "I do know they are not in," he answered, "for I 
 have just been told that Mr. Vivian and all three of 
 his daughters have gone out driving." 
 
 "Isn t that just like them?" she asked, with her 
 little laugh, so clear, so fine, and so fascinating. 
 "They had asked me to come up for a cup of tea and 
 to talk over their plans for next summer." 
 
 " Going down ?" called out the elevator-boy, seeing 
 them absorbed in their interest in each other. 
 
 As Sartain followed her into the hanging cage, a 
 wave of memory reminded him that the first time he 
 had seen her was in that same elevator, nearly a year 
 and a half ago ; and now he was going to tell her that 
 he loved her. 
 
 The boy slammed the door and pulled the rope and 
 they started downward. Sartain asked if it was not 
 very early to be making plans for the summer, when 
 the winter had scarcely gone. 
 
 "Ah, but the spring has come already, I think," 
 she returned ; " don t you ? The trees in the Park 
 look as if they were in a hurry to get into their new 
 suits." 
 
 " I haven t been into Central Park for three or four 
 months," he answered. 
 
 "Haven t you?" she returned. "Then you don t 
 know what you miss. I always try to get two or three 
 good long walks in the Park every week. But I ve 
 only had one this week, so far."
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 287 
 
 As the elevator came to a stop Sartain seized the op 
 portunity. 
 
 "Why not come for another one now ?" he asked. 
 " That is, if I am not an intruder ? If you would not 
 prefer to walk alone ?" 
 
 " I never walk alone if I can help it," she responded. 
 " I come here and get Dora or Theo or even Johnny." 
 
 And failing them to-day ?" he interrogated, hold 
 ing open the door of the house for her to pass out. 
 
 "Failing them," she repeated., smiling, "I shall be 
 pleased to accept your company." 
 
 They crossed Fifty-ninth Street and skirted the Park 
 until they came to an entrance of which they could 
 avail themselves. The broad path was asphalted, but 
 this pavement was cracked and broken here and there. 
 It sloped rapidly down to a brick tunnel, which ran 
 under one of the ample driveways. Then it rose again, 
 and it narrowed a little as it came to a graceful bridge 
 which curved over the bridle-path. The walk then 
 bent around the edge of a wide meadow where the grass 
 was greening again. On the shrubbery that fringed 
 the path the buds were already beginning to peep out 
 timidly ; the sap was rising once more in the bare trees 
 that branched above them ; and on all sides the signs 
 of spring were abundant, as they often are in K"ew York 
 in the first week in April. 
 
 The day itself was doubtful; in the morning the sun 
 had come out and shone brightly for an hour or two, 
 but now, in the afternoon, the sky had grayed over as 
 though making ready for rain. 
 
 Sartain walked by the side of Esther, saying little or 
 nothing, and leaving her to bear the burden of the talk. 
 He was thinking of what he was going to tell her be-
 
 288 A CONFIDENT TO-MOHROW 
 
 fore they parted. He meant to speak as soon as an 
 occasion offered ; and he intended to make an occa 
 sion, if need be. In the meantime, merely to be with 
 her was a joy to him, to listen to her gentle voice, to 
 watch her graceful movements. In trying to find 
 words to fit her, he had found " bird-like motion " and 
 " flower-like face " ; and he likened her now to a glanc 
 ing humming-bird and again to some rare orchid, col 
 orless almost, delicate, exquisite, priceless. 
 
 As he said little she let the conversation drop, and 
 they walked along side by side in silence for a hundred 
 yards or more. At last she looked up at him and 
 asked if he did not think her father was looking 
 wretchedly. 
 
 " I never saw him as worn as he was last night when 
 he came home to dinner," she said. 
 
 Sartain knew that this was probably caused by the 
 controversy in the office of Manhattan. " I saw him 
 yesterday," he admitted, "and I must say he seemed 
 to me not so easy in his mind as he used to be not so 
 placid, I mean." 
 
 "That s just it," she agreed. "He used to be so 
 calm always or, at least, it was very rarely that he 
 ever broke out against wickedness and injustice as he 
 has been doing so often lately." 
 
 The young man wondered whether he was right in 
 guessing that her father had wasted her inheritance ; 
 he wondered also whether she suspected it. 
 
 " Has he had anything special to worry him lately ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " I suppose he has/ she answered ; " indeed, I know 
 he has. He explained to me only last night that the 
 money my grandmother left me I told you about it,
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 289 
 
 didn t I ? well, it has been lost. It wasn t very much, 
 but what there was of it was badly invested, so it 
 seems, and it s all gone now. That must be what has 
 been making father so restless lately." 
 
 She was truly her father s daughter, Sartain thought, 
 in her disregard of money. She had never really en 
 joyed her fortune ; now that it had departed she 
 seemed to regret the annoyance this had caused her 
 father rather than the loss itself. 
 
 A sudden impulse moved him that he could not af 
 terwards explain. 
 
 " Do you know what it was your money was in 
 vested in ?" he asked. " Have you any idea how it 
 was lost ?" 
 
 " No," she answered. " Father didn t think to tell 
 me. It s gone, he said, and that s all I know." 
 
 " It has been spent in trying to establish Manhat 
 tan," he went on. 
 
 She looked up at him questioningly. 
 
 " Your father heard me describe the kind of a paper 
 we needed here in New York," he explained, "and so 
 he bought Manhattan for me to edit." 
 
 " And now it will stop and you will lose your place ?" 
 she asked. " Oh, I m so sorry." 
 
 " I can find something else easily enough," he as 
 sured her. " But I am put out that it is I who have 
 lost all your money for you." 
 
 " You must not mind that," she responded. " I 
 don t believe I should ever have been able to keep it, 
 nor father either ; we shouldn t know what to do with 
 money if we had it, really." 
 
 "And to think that all these months you have been 
 my boss," he said, "and I didn t know it."
 
 290 A CONFIDENT TO-HOEROW 
 
 " I did not know it either," she returned. 
 
 " And all these months I have been working for 
 you," he continued. Then he held himself in. 
 
 They were approaching a part of the Park where 
 there was less privacy. A little boy and a little girl 
 were playing together where the foot-path ran along 
 side the carriage-road ; they were pretending to keep 
 house. The little girl s nurse was standing with her 
 back to the children, turning up her pert and pretty 
 face to the gray-coated mounted policeman who was 
 bending forward to chaff with her. Half a dozen bi 
 cyclers flashed past gayly three men and three girls 
 trailing light laughter behind them. Along the bridle 
 path, riding slowly and looking into each other s eyes, 
 came a young man and a young woman ; she had a 
 figure that filled out the simple habit, and she knew 
 that she looked well on horseback ; he gazed into her 
 eyes as though he thought she would look well under 
 all circumstances ; a smug and stolid groom mounted 
 on a rotund cob followed at a discreet distance. 
 
 While Esther and Sartain were walking side by side, 
 with resolution urging him on, there was an unexpect 
 ed spurtle of rain just as the sun broke out on the 
 western sky. People scattered in every direction seek 
 ing shelter ; children scurried to their nurses ; the 
 men and women on horseback broke into a canter to 
 get under the cover of a bridge. 
 
 " It won t last long, I think," said Sartain, " but it 
 will spoil your bonnet." 
 
 " Oh, this old hat can t be damaged," she responded, 
 cheerfully. 
 
 As they turned a corner and passed under a shade- 
 less arbor, they could see that the path dipped down
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKKOW 291 
 
 and under the main road. Just then the rain re 
 doubled. 
 
 " There s a good place," cried he, "under the arch 
 there. Shall we run for it ?" 
 
 " Perhaps it wouldn t be a bad idea/ she yielded. 
 
 She picked up her skirts and skimmed along light 
 ly. He kept at her side, thinking all at once of Paul 
 and Virginia, and wishing that he could shield her 
 with a huge banana-leaf. 
 
 They came to the mouth of the tunnel, breathless. 
 
 " That Avas fun, wasn t it ?" she asked. " I do love 
 to be in the rain, don t you ?" 
 
 " I love to be anywhere that you are," he answered, 
 but at that moment a heavy carriage rumbled over 
 head, and he doubted if she had heard him. 
 
 They had the archway all to themselves, except for 
 two or three little children who were huddled together 
 at the other end, impatient to be away again. 
 
 Now that the time had come at last, Sartain could 
 not find his tongue. He straightened himself, and 
 he took a long breath ; he pulled at the point of his 
 beard, twisting it nervously. 
 
 Again a vehicle of some sort rolled over their heads 
 with a sound like the muttering of distant thunder. 
 
 Esther looked up at him, gravely. There was more 
 color on her cheeks than usual, but he set this down 
 to her sharp run. 
 
 " Mr. Sartain," she began, " if Manhattan is going 
 to stop, what will become of the story the serial, I 
 mean A Wolf at the Door 9" 
 
 "It, will have to stop, too, probably," he answered. 
 "But it will be published as a book, sooner or later." 
 
 " I m so glad !" she returned.
 
 292 A CONFIDENT TO-MOBBOW 
 
 " Why ?" he asked. 
 
 "Why?" she repeated. " Oh, I don t know. Be 
 cause it interested me, I suppose." 
 
 Sartain wondered if she had recognized herself in 
 the heroine. But before he could frame his question, 
 she went on : 
 
 " Do you know who is writing it ?" she asked. 
 
 " Who is writing what ?" he inquired, in turn. 
 
 "Who is the author of A Wolf at the Door?" she 
 explained. " I thought that editors always knew who 
 the authors were of the things they published ?" 
 
 "Don t you know who wrote that story ?" he asked, 
 in amazement. 
 
 "Of course I don t," she answered. " How should 
 I know ?" 
 
 He looked at her in astonishment. 
 
 " You mustn t stare at me like that," she said. " It 
 may be very ignorant of me, but I ve no idea who 
 S.Francis is." 
 
 Then Sartain perceived how it was that she was not 
 aware of his authorship. 
 
 " The Francis is for Frank," he said, " and the S. 
 stands for Sartain." 
 
 The color deepened on her cheek, and her eyes were 
 lowered. 
 
 " I did not know that," she responded. 
 
 " And now you know it," he went on, seizing the 
 opportunity, "you will forgive me for having taken 
 you for my heroine. I know it was a great liberty, but 
 I could not help it really, I couldn t." 
 
 " You couldn t help it ?" she repeated. " Why not ?" 
 But she did not raise her eyes. 
 
 " Because I loved you so much that you were the
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORHOW 293 
 
 only woman I could think of at all," he answered. " I 
 had to put you in the book. I couldn t have kept you 
 out if I had tried and I wouldn t try/ 
 
 He paused ; he thought that he saw her tremble a 
 little. 
 
 " I do love you," he went on. " I have loved you 
 ever since that first day I saw you at Mr. Vivian s, 
 when you were on the table as Cinderella. I could not 
 keep it to myself any longer. Now you know." 
 
 " Yes," she repeated. " Now I know ;" and she 
 looked at him again. 
 
 He caught hope from this glance. 
 
 " I know I am not worthy of you," he urged ; " but 
 if you could only care for me a little if it were ever 
 so little at first " 
 
 She dropped her eyes once more and her color deep 
 ened as she said, "I think I do care now a little." 
 
 They did not know how long they sat there under 
 the bridge, with the carriages rumbling above them. 
 The flurry of rain was over soon, and the setting sun 
 shone out strong and red ; the children at the other 
 end of the tunnel ran out again to play, and went 
 home at last ; and still the young lovers lingered. 
 
 When they did emerge once more into the full light 
 of day, the afternoon was almost spent. As they were 
 slowly retracing their steps up the incline they had 
 swiftly run down in the rain, they heard the winding 
 of a horn. Over the bridge, high above them, a four-in- 
 hand coach rolled past, with a gay company filling its 
 seats Mr. Vivian, his daughters, and two or three more. 
 Sartain and Esther looked up, and Johnny looked down 
 and saw them standing there, hand in hand.
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 IT was the beginning of April that Prank Sartain 
 told Esther Dircks he loved her, and it was at the end 
 of May that they were married. They had known each 
 other for eighteen months, and when they discovered 
 each the love of the other, they saw no reason for a 
 longer engagement. There was even a motive for 
 haste to be found in the condition of her father s 
 health. 
 
 Dircks had made no protest against his daughter s 
 engagement, and apparently he bore no malice against 
 Sartain. He was getting feebler ; his tall frame was 
 bent now, and his broad hands often twitched ner^ 
 vously. It was as though the flame had burned out 
 and left the old man almost without interest in life. 
 He Avas no longer able to retouch a block with his old 
 skill, and it was not likely that he could provide for 
 his own support. Fortunately Sartain and Truax were 
 able finally to sell Manhattan to the new owner of the 
 Upper Ten on advantageous terms; and by Esther s 
 wish the money received was invested so that it would 
 be a reserve fund in case Dircks was wholly unable to 
 earn his living. 
 
 Fortunately, also, Sartain stepped promptly into an 
 other situation. The senior partner of the house that 
 had published Dust and Ashes had liked the way in
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MOHROW 295 
 
 which the young author had prepared that volume for 
 the press, and the practical suggestions he had made 
 for the design, which served as a cover-stamp and also 
 as a poster. He told Sartain that he would issue A 
 Wolf at the Door on the same terms as the earlier story ; 
 and that there having been no profit in Dust and Ashes 
 did not prejudice him against the later tale. And he 
 did more than agree to publish the young man s second 
 book. When a little old gentleman died about the first 
 of May, who had advised them for at least two genera 
 tions of the firm, he asked Vivian if Sartain would not 
 be a good man to attach permanently to the fortunes 
 of the house. Vivian approved of the suggestion heart 
 ily; and the publishers thereupon offered Sartain a 
 position with a good salary and with full liberty to 
 employ his leisure in literature. 
 
 Thus it was that Sartain felt his future assured 
 when he met Esther at the altar of the Little Church 
 Down the Street. He had asked Truax to be his best 
 man, and Vivian s three daughters were the brides 
 maids. 
 
 After the ceremony, Vivian invited them all to 
 luncheon in his ample apartments the bride and her 
 father, the groom and his best man, and half a dozen 
 other stray young fellows. At table Adams was a 
 little moody now and then, and when he aroused him 
 self his gayety was a little factitious. Sartain knew 
 that the news of Esther s engagement had been a 
 sudden shock to the artist ; but now it seemed to the 
 man who had won that the man who had lost was bear 
 ing the blow bravely. It struck him also that the 
 twins, often so personal in their passages of arms with 
 Adams, were less boisterous than usual, and that they
 
 296 A CONFIDENT TO-MOKHOW 
 
 were even considerate, not to say sympathetic, in their 
 attitude towards the disappointed lover. The father 
 of the twins had been so cordial in his congratulations 
 that Sartain doubted whether he had not been alto 
 gether wrong in thinking that Vivian was also in love 
 with Esther, all unconscious as he believed this affec 
 tion to be. 
 
 At last the repast came to an end, and Sartain was 
 able to carry away his bride. She clung to her father 
 and wept over him for a minute, and then suffered 
 herself to be separated from him. Sartain was wait 
 ing for her at the door of the elevator. Down-stairs, 
 on the sidewalk, Johnny was the last to kiss her good 
 bye, just before she stepped into the carriage, after 
 shaking off the rice plentifully besprinkled over her. 
 As the bride and groom drove off the twins leaned out 
 of the windows of the apartment, and cast after them 
 half a dozen old ball slippers. 
 
 The wedding trip was to be limited to a fortnight, 
 as Sartain had to be back in New York by the middle 
 of June, and the young couple were going to spend 
 their two weeks in Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Wash 
 ington, cities that neither of them had seen. 
 
 When they came out on the upper deck of the ferry 
 boat, Sartain drew a long breath of exultation. Now 
 at last he was bearing Esther away from everybody 
 to have her all to himself. He gazed down at her 
 with abounding joy, and she returned the look of 
 love. 
 
 He told her how he had come to New York, with what 
 hopes and fears, and how he had met his fate that very 
 first day in the great city. It was love at first sight, 
 if ever there were a case ; and he would never again
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 297 
 
 doubt the possibility. Then he asked her if she could 
 recall the occasion when she began to feel any interest 
 in him ; and, to his surprise and delight, she confessed 
 that it was also on the first day they had met. 
 
 "I don t suppose I really loved you then/ she ex 
 plained, shyly ; "not as I do now of course not. But 
 I was strangely drawn to you, and I didn t think that 
 you thought of me at all I" 
 
 "But I did !" he protested. 
 
 "You didn t show it," she rejoined. 
 
 "I didn t think of anybody else," he asserted. 
 
 " You weren t half as attentive to me as you were to 
 Johnny," she returned. 
 
 "But I wasn t afraid of her," he declared. 
 
 "And you were afraid of me ?" she asked. " What 
 was so very terrible about me ?" 
 
 " You were always gracious and kind," he respond 
 ed ; "but I was timid. I suppose being in love makes 
 some men shyer than ever." 
 
 "Yes," she admitted, "I did think you were very 
 shy." 
 
 "Didn t you see that was all your fault ?" he in 
 sisted. "It was all because I lost my head completely 
 when I looked at you." 
 
 "I thought you didn t look at me very often," she 
 ansAvered, "and I don t think now you looked at me 
 half as often as you did at Johnny." 
 
 "But I wasn t afraid of Johnny," he repeated. 
 
 " You ought to have been," she said, slyly, but with 
 a little flash of her eye. 
 
 "Why?" he inquired. "I don t see that. She 
 was always very friendly. I I used to tell her how 
 much I loved you."
 
 298 A CONFIDENT TO-MORKOW 
 
 "Did you? said Esther, with a laugh. "I don t 
 think she would enjoy that. But then a man would 
 never know any better." 
 
 " A man wouldn t know any better about what ?" he 
 returned. 
 
 "Oh, never mind," she answered; "you wouldn t 
 understand." 
 
 "Try me," he urged. 
 
 "Did you mean to make me jealous by flirting with 
 Johnny ?" she asked, suddenly, 
 
 "Never!" he assured her. "Never! I hope you 
 cannot believe that I would be guilty of such a thing. 
 It it wouldn t have been fair to her either." 
 
 "Oh, Johnny can take care of herself," Esther re 
 turned. " She made me think you were in love with 
 her." 
 
 "Do you mean to say that she told you that ?" he 
 asked, in astonishment. 
 
 " Oh, dear no," she responded. " It wasn t neces 
 sary to do that. She didn t do anything to make me 
 think so, she just let me think it, that s all. And you 
 helped her so !" 
 
 "I helped her ?" he echoed. 
 
 " That song you sang at the studio that hateful 
 night when we had all those absurd messes," she said; 
 "didn t you sing that right at her ?" 
 
 "I?" he returned. "Why, I was thinking of 
 you with every note I sang. It seemed to me as 
 though I were declaring my love to you before them 
 all." 
 
 " I didn t know that then. I wish I had," she re 
 plied. 
 
 " I wish you had, too," said he. " If you loved
 
 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 299 
 
 me then, why, we might have been married months 
 ago I" 
 
 Esther paid uo attention to this remark. 
 
 "I wish I had known it then," she said. "Of 
 course, I saw she was trying to get you." 
 
 "To get me ?" he asked, in astonishment. 
 
 " She was trying all she knew how/ Esther returned. 
 " And she knew I was watching her, too !" 
 
 "What do you mean?" he asked. "Why should 
 she want me ?" 
 
 " She was in love with you," was Esther s direct 
 answer. 
 
 "With me ?" he repeated. "Impossible I" 
 
 "You dear old stupid," said the bride. "Didn t 
 you see that ?" 
 
 " No," he replied. " I never suspected it. Are 
 you are you sure of it ?" 
 
 "Of course I am," she responded. And she looked 
 up at him with her irresistible smile. 
 
 He looked down at her with a little laugh of sheer 
 physical delight in life. Then he took her unresist 
 ing hand and tucked her arm under his ; and they 
 slowly paced the broad promenade as the boat pushed 
 off and thrust itself out of the slip. He felt as though 
 he and she were now beginning the voyage of life to 
 gether. 
 
 The sky was golden with hope, and there was scarce 
 ly a breeze to ripple the sparkling surface of the broad 
 river. He remembered that he had entered New 
 York by that same water-gate, not two years before. 
 Then he was a stranger in a strange laud ; and now 
 he was a citizen of no mean city. Then he was alone 
 and lonely ; and now he had his bride by his side.
 
 300 A CONFIDENT TO-MORROW 
 
 Then the mighty outline of New York had towered 
 above him like a frowning fortress, to be besieged and 
 taken by storm at last ; and now as he looked back at 
 the roofs and spires and lofty domes of the metropolis 
 the profile was forbidding no longer, but friendly and 
 inviting. 
 
 THE END
 
 BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS 
 
 RAGGED LADY. A Novel. $1 75. 
 
 THE STORY OF A PLAY. A Novel. 81 50. 
 
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