THIS 
 
 LABYRINTHINE 
 
 LIFE 
 
 ! i 
 
 GEORGE 
 
 ALEXANDER 
 
 FISCHER 
 
•FTHJ3 
 
 umnmttY 
 
 OF 
 
In the midst loomed up the giant cacti. 
 
This 
 Labyrinthine Life 
 
 A Tale of the Arizona Desert 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE ALEXANDER FISCHER 
 
 Author of 
 BEETHOVEN: A CHARACTER STUDY 
 
 ... be to other souls 
 The cup of strength in some great agony- 
 George Eliot: The Choir Invisible. 
 
 B. W. DODGE fcf CO. 
 
 NEW YORK ::::::::::::::: 1907 
 
Copyright, 1907, by 
 GEORGE ALEXANDER FISCHER 
 
 THE TROW PRESS • NEW YORK 
 
<?6I 
 
 FSZ9A 
 
 ike 
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 We have as yet no conception of the impor- 
 tance of the desert from the point of view of 
 health. We know to some extent what it means 
 to the tuberculous, but it means still more to the 
 overworked, the unhappy, those on the verge of 
 nervous prostration, professional men after a par- 
 ticularly hard siege — those who in any manner 
 have drawn too heavily on their nerve force. It 
 is the place where even in a short sojourn one 
 grows younger, given favoring conditions. 
 
 MT01487 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 In the midst loomed up the giant cacti . . . Frontispiece 
 
 FACING 
 PAGE 
 
 It was an initiation into a new world of thought — this 
 revelation of the music of the Polish master which 
 took place through his partner's instrumentality . 160 
 
 Threading their way in among hillocks and mountains, 
 
 gradually ascending ....... 206 
 
 Toyed with the fancy that the genii had awakened 
 him with the purpose of showing him the beauty 
 of the desert night 325 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 "TT THAT'S Branscombe's little game any- 
 W way? To think of a man in good 
 health planking himself down in a lungers' camp 
 on the desert when he doesn't have to! If he 
 were caring for a sick wife or other relative it 
 would be different. He makes me tired." 
 
 The question was propounded by Arthur White, 
 president of the Lungers' Association of Arizona, 
 a local organization formed for purely social pur- 
 poses, eligibility to which was restricted to males 
 of the age of twenty-one or over having defective 
 lungs. For obvious reasons, initiatory ceremonies 
 in the L. A. A., by which abbreviation the Club 
 was usually referred to, were postponed pending 
 the recovery of the applicant, an outcome confi- 
 dently looked forward to by each individual 
 member. 
 
 The better to facilitate this desired consum- 
 mation, a huge reward of merit, beautifully en- 
 grossed by one of the occupants of the Camp, 
 
 7 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 containing many flourishes, and made up largely 
 of " whereases " and " wherefores," was offered 
 as a prize to the first club-member recovering to 
 the extent of enabling him to undertake some oc- 
 cupation as a means of making a livelihood. 
 
 There were a few ineligibles in the Camp, ro- 
 bust, healthy individuals, usually one of a married 
 couple, husband or wife, who had accompanied 
 the invalid to the desert country. With an as- 
 sumption of it being a great deprivation, these 
 were rigidly debarred from all participation in 
 the proceedings of the Club. On the approach 
 of one of these derelicts, even though the others 
 were discussing the most commonplace topics, an 
 ostentatious lowering of the voice, an air of mys- 
 tery extravagantly assumed, conveyed an intima- 
 tion to these healthy ones of being in the minority, 
 of exclusion from privileges confined solely to the 
 others. It was a good example of the all-pervad- 
 ing Western humor, and of the ready adaptation 
 of the newcomer to it. 
 
 The situation of the invalid on the Arizona 
 desert, thousands of miles from home and family, 
 grappling with a disease like consumption, gener- 
 ally with insufficient means, would not seem to be 
 one from which humor could easily be evolved; 
 yet it came to the surface constantly among them, 
 often on the slightest provocation. Though the 
 
 8 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Great Enemy hovered near, sometimes indeed 
 coming perilously close following on some slight 
 imprudence, his presence was ignored. Though 
 the spectre sat at the feast — perhaps because of 
 his very proximity — this lightsomeness came all 
 the more to be indulged in. 
 
 The wisdom of this course was apparent. By 
 treating the subject humorously, the disease was 
 robbed of half its terrors. The very fact that 
 there were a number of them associated together, 
 all in the same predicament, begat confidence. 
 They realized, even here, that strength lies in 
 union. In thus giving expression to their sense 
 of humor they showed how heroically they could 
 rise superior to fate. 
 
 Or it may have been a defiance of fate; a re- 
 prisal to the Enemy for what they had endured; 
 a meeting of the Bony Scytheman face to face 
 without cringing, now that recovery seemed pos- 
 sible ; a casting back — an assertion that the victim 
 had risen superior to former conditions and was 
 to be terrorized no more. In furtherance of this 
 sentiment, they had even elected White, the wag 
 of the Camp, to the post of Chief Undertaker, on 
 account of the attitude of solemnity he was able 
 to assume on occasion, and the threat, " White'll 
 get you yet if you don't look out," was always 
 potent to prevent a contemplated imprudence. 
 
 9 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Nicknames were served around impartially, 
 usually with a humorous application. Thus, Mr. 
 Hargrave Jamison, of Boston, a man of family, 
 sedate and dignified, as became that condition in 
 a company made up largely of bachelors — who 
 went about with an air like that of a Supreme 
 Court judge, soon came to be called " Jimmy " 
 by some of the leading spirits of the Club. 
 
 It was an aggregation of campers, not an or- 
 ganized camp. The spot they were on was un- 
 cultivated land, hence desert, overgrown with 
 sagebrush and mesquite. It had the advantage 
 of being not far from the terminus of the car line. 
 Water, that great necessity in a dry land, had to 
 be carried an eighth of a mile. 
 
 Though the health-seekers had come from every 
 part of the country, all strangers to each other on 
 arriving, the comradery engendered by camp life, 
 soon made them feel like old friends, and it was 
 not long before little paths were worn from tent 
 to tent. True, when they called, they usually came 
 for something — either requiring advice about cook- 
 ing, being for the most part unused to housekeep- 
 ing mysteries, or to borrow something that they 
 lacked for the meal they were preparing, but it is 
 only justice to them to add that they made it a 
 point to return whatever they came for, whether 
 it was advice or groceries. 
 
 10 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 This comradery, this spirit of helpfulness tow- 
 ard, and dependence on, one another, which made 
 the life pleasanter for each, was largely due to 
 the initiative of a woman, a Mrs. Williams, who 
 had come to Arizona with her husband on account 
 of his health, and whose tact and ability in pro- 
 moting a kindly feeling one to the other, were 
 frequently exercised. She initiated the teachable 
 ones into the mysteries of cooking; the helpless 
 she invited frequently to her own table, and soon 
 came to be regarded as the Dean of the Camp. 
 
 They were sunning themselves in front of one 
 of the larger tents, sitting about on boxes or stools, 
 resting after the exertion of preparing breakfast. 
 They were mostly young fellows under thirty, al- 
 though a few were verging on middle age. 
 
 " Something's back of it," said John Stevenson, 
 with an air of having exclusive knowledge up his 
 sleeve, which was now to be disclosed. " It's 
 something other than a desire to commune with 
 Nature that has driven him out here, you bet ! " 
 Then, after a pause to make the announcement 
 more impressive: "He's been disappointed in 
 some girl! That's what's the matter with him. 
 Your Uncle Dudley don't carry his eyes in the 
 back of his head." 
 
 "Who told you?" 
 
 " No one told me, but that's the way it always 
 ii 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 is in books when they turn their backs on their 
 kind. It's always a girl," wound up Stevenson. 
 
 " It can't be a girl, Stevie," said White, with an 
 air of finality. White was a man of many moods, 
 imaginative to the last degree, influenced by his 
 susceptibilities in myriads of different directions — 
 so impressionable that he was apt to adopt for the 
 time being the prevailing characteristics of any 
 prominent figure, whether in fiction or in real life, 
 that happened to take his fancy. Just now his 
 role was that of a cynic. " It can't be a girl ; 
 when a man gets to be forty, he don't go to no 
 desert on account of a girl. He's got over that 
 kind of thing by that time, you bet ! You'll have 
 to guess again, Stevie." 
 
 " Perhaps he's the mysterious benefactor who's 
 putting down the well, and is going to pipe the 
 water to our tents." 
 
 A shout of derision greeted this sally, and cries 
 of, "That's likely," and " Not he!" indicated 
 the degree of popularity in which Branscombe was 
 held in the Camp. 
 
 " I'd be more likely to take him for a mysteri- 
 ous malefactor hiding from justice," said White 
 melodramatically. " He may be a forger using 
 our Camp for a shelter." 
 
 " It can't exactly be said to be our Camp, since 
 he was here ahead of any of us; in reality, it is 
 
 12 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 we that have butted in on him," said Stevenson. 
 " Give him a show, boys." 
 
 " Why did he want us to take him for a 
 lunger," rejoined White, " if he's on the square? 
 It brings us back to the original proposition: 
 What's he here for at all if he isn't a lunger? " 
 
 " I wouldn't wonder," said Fillmore impress- 
 ively, in a good imitation of White's melodramatic 
 manner, u I wouldn't wonder if he should turn 
 out to be a hold-up man; the leader of the gang 
 that holds up the gambling places here." 
 
 " Yes ! " added Stevenson, lowering his voice 
 and also imitating White's manner as nearly as 
 possible. " That would account for his living on 
 the desert, and for not being a lunger, which 
 seems to be his greatest iniquity, and also for 
 his having plenty of money. You've struck it, 
 laddie!" 
 
 11 He was out all last night," said another mys- 
 teriously. " Told some one he was going to see 
 the play and would stay at the hotel overnight. 
 How do we know where he was ? This talk about 
 the play may have been a blind to throw us off 
 the track." 
 
 11 Has anyone seen this morning's paper yet? " 
 asked Stevenson significantly. " Wonder if any- 
 thing occurred last night; anything in the way of 
 a murder or a hold-up? " 
 
 13 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 11 It certainly looks suspicious," murmured an- 
 other, " his wanting to see a play. Something 
 ought to be done about it." 
 
 " Got a gun, Willie? I shall sleep with one 
 eye open hereafter until we know more about 
 this." 
 
 " All right, you fellows," rejoined White 
 gloomily. " Go on kidding, but perhaps you'll 
 find out in the end that I'm right. Why does he 
 keep so much to himself? Why don't he tell 
 us something about himself? If he's all right, 
 why doesn't he act like it ? Why isn't he friendly 
 to us? That's what I'd like to know." 
 
 " Whitey, my boy," said Stevenson, patting him 
 on the shoulder, " you were never intended for 
 tragedy. Keep to comedy and you'll suit us first- 
 rate." 
 
 They were generally from the better walks of 
 life. White was a journalist, and had been on the 
 reportorial staff of one of the large Chicago pa- 
 pers. Fillmore was a physician, Stevenson a book- 
 keeper. Some had been in business; all had been 
 compelled, with the progress of their disease, to 
 give up their work, and the income that went 
 with it. 
 
 In their dress they affected the costume of the 
 ranchman or cowboy, as usually depicted on the 
 stage, except that they carried no bowie-knives or 
 
 14 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 revolvers in belt or boot-leg. Not that they did 
 not have them. As a matter of fact, there were 
 about as many weapons as men in the Camp. 
 These had been brought along from the East, 
 often the parting gift of some friend, who, while 
 thinking that he was doing the correct thing in 
 the premises, was totally unaware that in the pos- 
 sibilities suggested, the invalid came near giving 
 up the trip altogether. Fortunately, they dis- 
 covered soon after their arrival that the gun is 
 as much of a superfluity in Arizona to men 
 of their class, as it is in Union Square, or on 
 Boston Common, so they wisely left them in their 
 trunks. 
 
 Their garb ran largely to corduroy trousers, 
 gray flannel shirts, and broad-brimmed, gray felt 
 hats with leather bands. The carved leather band 
 appeared to be one of the essentials of the equip- 
 ment; from the uniform use that was made of it, 
 talismanic powers might have been predicated for 
 it. Elk-hide shoes, in color resembling the dust 
 of the street, completed the costume. 
 
 No greater compliment could have been paid 
 these men than to mistake them for ranchmen. 
 The make-up of some of them was indeed so good 
 as to give the impression to the uninitiated, of 
 being native to the soil; and it was one of the 
 things that helped them to get away from their 
 
 *5 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 invalidism, that went a long way toward recovery, 
 that they no longer looked the part of invalid, 
 thanks to the healthful outdoor life, the sound 
 sleep, the feeling of well-being imparted by the 
 dry stimulating atmosphere and the sunshine. 
 Although their forms were spare, — the bronzed 
 cheek, the bright eye, the frequent laugh, the 
 occasional whistle, bespoke returning health, or 
 the expectation of it. 
 
 Some, it is true, were destined never to get well, 
 and most of them knew they would never be as 
 robust as before. They realized that in all like- 
 lihood they would have to remain in the South- 
 west, except for an occasional visit " home," and 
 that it would be necessary to be always " careful." 
 Notwithstanding, an atmosphere of optimism pre- 
 vailed instead of the depression commonly asso- 
 ciated in the popular mind as existing in a place 
 made up largely of invalids. 
 
 It was inspiriting to hear a yell proceeding from 
 some young fellow on emerging from his tent after 
 dressing in the morning, whose dejected demeanor 
 on first coming to the Camp the previous autumn 
 was evidence enough that he had come to Arizona 
 as a last resource. One would hardly think his 
 case had been desperate to note the abandon with 
 which he would shout at the top of his voice, as 
 if testing his lung capacity. 
 
 16 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 It was characteristic of each, that, while yet at 
 home, they had intuitively stopped making plans 
 for the future, the invariable mental reservation, 
 " if I live," dampening all ardor and interest in 
 the matter, — they now, with one accord, talked 
 as if they had years ahead of them in which to 
 do things. All in all, it was not an unpleasant 
 experience, this camp life on the desert. They 
 had begun it with dread and apprehension, but 
 many of them came to enjoy it. 
 
 They had, for the most part, but little or no 
 means of their own, relying on small remittances 
 from home, or a sick benefit fund from some 
 fraternal organization on which to live. With 
 most, the knowledge that they were consumptive 
 had come as a complete surprise — something 
 wholly unexpected. Their experiences in this re- 
 spect were quite similar. A little more fatigue 
 after exertion than formerly, perhaps some falling 
 off in the body-weight, appetite not quite so good. 
 With some, the climax had come through a hem- 
 orrhage, but more commonly through a casual 
 visit to a physician, whose trained senses had led 
 to a discovery of the presence of the disease. 
 From henceforth their whole mode of life had 
 been revolutionized. The various plans, some on 
 the eve of fulfilment, were now to be abandoned. 
 If married (some of the married ones had but 
 
 17 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 recently assumed the new responsibility) the shock 
 was all the greater. 
 
 11 That windstorm yesterday was tough. It's 
 a good thing they come so seldom here. Arizona 
 wouldn't be much of a health resort if we had this 
 to reckon with often." 
 
 The speaker was a serious-looking young fel- 
 low, called the Deacon, who had just joined the 
 group. He had a pathetic look of longing in 
 his face, which all knew was acquired by having 
 been compelled to leave his wife behind in the 
 Eastern city. He was a musician by profession, 
 and had married one of his promising scholars. 
 In knowledge of the world, they were both like 
 children, but when the husband's health failed, 
 the wife had stepped into the breach, taking up 
 the work so far as she was able. She was now 
 earning the means on which both subsisted. The 
 Deacon had had his ambitions, having been an 
 indefatigable student, and had aimed for the con- 
 cert stage. His name was Henry Martin, and as 
 no play on words seemed appropriate here, they 
 had dubbed him " Deacon." 
 
 These desert storms filled him with a nameless 
 dread. Whether it was that the dry air, rendered 
 still drier by the wind, tended to make him ner- 
 vous, or whether, the sky being overcast during 
 these storms, the depressing effect was due to the 
 
 18 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 absence of the sun, he did not know, but their 
 recurrence awoke in him intense anxiety of mind, 
 like portents of disaster, as of calamities im- 
 pending. 
 
 " Whitey and I were in town all day," said 
 Stevenson. " We stayed at Nick's. He takes all 
 the papers, and you can get a good dinner there, 
 too." 
 
 14 Nick's is the only place in town that has no 
 gambling layout," reflected White. 
 
 " Deacon, have you ever been to see the game 
 at the White Heifer?" 
 
 A negative from the Deacon. 
 
 " When you do go," said Fillmore, " take no- 
 tice of the dealer at the roulette table. He's a 
 lunger in the last stages of the disease, so emaci- 
 ated that you can almost see the skull through his 
 face. His fingers, as he rakes in the coins, look 
 twice the length of an ordinary man's. It's un- 
 canny." 
 
 " I don't suppose he does it from preference," 
 said White. " Perhaps he's been bucking the tiger 
 himself, and this is the only way open to him to 
 make a living." 
 
 " He won't have to worry about a living much 
 longer if he spends his days in that place. The 
 air is so thick you can cut it with a knife. It's 
 plain they don't cater to invalids or they'd ven- 
 
 19 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 tilate. Their patronage sure comes from cowboys 
 and miners. He won't last a month there." This 
 from the doctor. 
 
 " You come to town with me to-morrow, Dea- 
 con, and we'll see the game," said White, rising 
 as he looked at his watch. " We can see all we 
 want to in half an hour." 
 
 M Do you good to see a little of life," said a 
 young fellow by the name of Salton. " The spice 
 of danger is taken out of it, owing to this being 
 almost a Yankee city, but it's interesting in a 
 measure, and gives you something to write about 
 to the fellows back home." 
 
 " You should see the letter I wrote to the fel- 
 lows on the Tribunal about gambling experiences 
 here," put in White, willing to defer his walk 
 provided he might have the centre of the stage 
 a while longer. " I drew word pictures of a scene 
 purporting to have been witnessed by me, which, 
 if they believed it, — and people will believe any- 
 thing about the West, — must have made their hair 
 stand on end. I described a fight over the cards 
 with bowie-knives between a Chinaman and a 
 ' bad man,' in which both were almost dismem- 
 bered." 
 
 " That's it," said another. " It enables you to 
 make your letters picturesque." 
 
 M In some of the mining towns in the interior, 
 20 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 I'll bet you can see bowie-knives and guns on the 
 tables alongside the players yet," remarked White, 
 as he turned to go, " but that's all right. It 
 makes people polite. The revolver's a great civ- 
 ilizer." 
 
 11 You haven't settled yet what it is that brings 
 Branscombe out here," said Fillmore. " Before 
 we adjourn I move that Whitey be appointed a 
 committee of one to ascertain this momentous fact 
 and make a report later." 
 
 21 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE following morning, White and the Dea- 
 con drove into town as they had planned 
 on the previous afternoon. It was still early, — 
 campers are early risers, — but the sun was bright 
 and warm, and the air balmy as that of a June 
 day. Each felt that subtle, rejuvenating influ- 
 ence pervading his organism, resulting from the 
 sound sleep in the pure air of the desert which 
 usually lasted well on into the forenoon. For a 
 part of each day at least, when no untoward cir- 
 cumstance occurred to mar the night's rest, they 
 could taste the luxury of returning health, and 
 this, in itself, had an important bearing on the 
 case, giving them confidence in ultimate recovery. 
 Spring was at hand. Though the calendar in- 
 dicated that February had but just begun, the 
 short winter, in which the nights had been cold 
 enough to check the growth of the vegetation and 
 to cause the leaves of the deciduous trees to fall, 
 was nearly over. Hope was in the air. Life now 
 seemed to have been bestowed for something other 
 than endurance. Enjoyment, fulfilment, seemed 
 
 22 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 also to be included in the scheme of things. The 
 magical effect of the few showers on the vegeta- 
 tion of desert and garden was already visible. 
 Roses of all kinds luxuriated in the gardens, nod- 
 ding and wafting their fragrance to them as they 
 drove along. In the pastures sleek Holstein cattle 
 surveyed life with serene eyes. Grackles chorused 
 in the cottonwoods. All space seemed glowing 
 with color, quivering with song, vibrant with life. 
 
 The Deacon, charmed with all this loveliness, 
 was silent, thinking what a good letter he would 
 make of it to his wife. White, in his present 
 character of cynic, was also silent. He was essen- 
 tially an actor; be it said, he generally acted well 
 his part. He was artist enough to realize that 
 cynicism was somehow out of harmony with all 
 this vigor and newness of life; you cannot be en- 
 thusiastic and cynical at the same time, so he 
 wisely held his peace. 
 
 White was utterly unlike the Deacon, mentally 
 and physically. Of striking appearance, he was 
 always to the fore in a company, without giving 
 the appearance of having pushed himself there. 
 He was the leading spirit in the Camp. 
 
 He had started a novel to keep his hand in, 
 and, requiring a villain, had hit upon Branscombe. 
 He knew absolutely nothing about him, but the 
 slight mystery which he assumed as attaching to 
 
 23 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 his presence in the Camp seemed to justify him 
 in interpreting it to the other's discredit, at least 
 for the purposes of fiction. 
 
 White felt sure that Branscombe had a history 
 — everything betokened it. The youngish face in 
 conjunction with his gray-besprinkled hair seemed 
 to proclaim the fact, and render him an interest- 
 ing psychological study to the volatile White. 
 Men like this, he reflected, are not out on the 
 desert except for a purpose. Saint or sinner, hero 
 or villain, he made a picturesque figure, and as 
 such, seemed legitimate property for his purpose. 
 He must have a history out of the common, he 
 felt convinced. Since he could not get at the real 
 one, he constructed one, sketching him at one time 
 as a red-handed assassin weltering in gore; at an- 
 other, as a very prince of Machiavellian craft. 
 
 Had Branscombe so desired, the two might have 
 become the best of friends, in which case he would 
 probably have been elevated to the post of hero. 
 Since this was not to be, he must take the conse- 
 quences. As this conception of the character of 
 Branscombe grew in his hands, he became by in- 
 sensible degrees the leader in the opposition 
 against him, the others humoring his outbursts 
 for the fun they afforded. 
 
 The Deacon was the antithesis of all this. He 
 was a plain, straightforward young man, inclined 
 
 24 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 to take things literally, having the curious simplic- 
 ity that often goes with the artistic temperament. 
 He might have taken Emerson's words, " Be and 
 not seem," for his motto to govern his life by. 
 His mental processes were less involved, and he 
 was not so decorative an adjunct of the Camp as 
 was White, but he fitted into his niche, and as a 
 component part of the whole, was perhaps quite 
 as important as the other. 
 
 Nature had compensated him for his slight 
 physical condition by giving him an ardent soul; 
 or perhaps the soul was wearing out the body. 
 In either case, in the sum-total, — if life is to be 
 measured by what it yields, — he probably was 
 faring as well as the dullard of perfect health 
 living out his allotted three-score and ten. 
 
 After receiving their mail and making a few 
 purchases, the Deacon, full of the letter he was 
 going to write, was for returning to Camp at once, 
 but White, determined that he should see the 
 game, held him to his agreement. 
 
 Many of the gambling places in the Southwest 
 never close their doors night or day. They are 
 freely patronized by all classes, and large sums 
 of money change hands there, but luxuriousness 
 is not a characteristic of them as in the East. The 
 footfall is not deadened by the deep pile of Turk- 
 ish carpets; the walls are relieved by prints instead 
 
 25 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 of paintings and tapestries, and lunches are not in 
 evidence. No bait is required to lure patronage 
 here. 
 
 It was still early, but the games were in progress 
 as they entered, with bystanders grouped about. 
 A decorous silence prevailed, broken by the click- 
 ing of chips. No effort is made in these places to 
 induce visitors to participate in the game, many 
 of them never hazarding a dollar. 
 
 " We should have come in the evening to see 
 the thing properly," complained White. " I don't 
 count on getting you here again, and I wanted you 
 to see something worth while. I never come here 
 of an evening but what I see * stuff ' that would 
 make at least half a column were I still on the 
 staff." 
 
 "Why do you come?" asked the Deacon 
 simply. 
 
 " Oh, it don't do me any harm. It's part of 
 my business as a newspaper man to see what's 
 going on. I do it to keep my hand in. I've 
 never played in my life, and have no desire to. 
 I come for the spectacle, and never remain longer 
 than, say, a quarter of an hour; the air's too bad. 
 It's a risk for a lunger to come here at all. But 
 there's lots going on in these places out of which 
 good ' copy ' might be made. It's really a pity 
 to see it go to waste." 
 
 26 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 A young fellow, rather shabbily clothed, with 
 a nameless something about him that suggested 
 homelessness — perhaps it was the wistfulness re- 
 flected in the innocent blue eyes that somehow 
 seemed to convey the impression of habitually 
 seeking something — came in and took a chair. 
 He appeared to be a habitue of the place. The 
 pinched features and hectic flush denoted the con- 
 sumptive. He descried White from across the 
 room and nodded to him. When he was out of 
 ear-shot White gave the Deacon a bit of the 
 other's history. 
 
 " He's only a simple country boy, not much 
 over twenty. He came here for his health about 
 four months ago, from Virginia, and has been up 
 against it for fair ever since. I don't suppose he 
 had ever seen a city before leaving his home, or 
 had ever been in a saloon. His father has been 
 dead some years. His mother died the past sum- 
 mer. They had a little farm which he carried on. 
 He lost much rest taking care of his mother dur- 
 ing her last illness. After her death, the attend- 
 ing physician, though not well versed in tubercu- 
 losis signs, suspected the presence of the disease, 
 and, on making an examination, this was con- 
 firmed. It was quite incipient, and he advised 
 him to go to Arizona where he could work on a 
 ranch while being cured. To expect a simple, 
 
 27 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 guileless youth like this to make his way among 
 strangers, and in sickness, is the height of ab- 
 surdity; he would not have been equal to it had 
 he been perfectly healthy, but that's a blunder 
 that's constantly made. 
 
 " He had about fifty dollars on reaching here, 
 and stayed around town while it lasted. It's sin- 
 gular how many reach here with just fifty dollars. 
 That seems to be the limit with many. Then he 
 got a job on a ranch for his board, but as the 
 ranchman seemed to expect as much work from 
 him as if he had been paying him wages, he left 
 and came back to town. In a few days hunger 
 drove him to the County house, but he only stayed 
 there a few days, saying it was impossible to stand 
 it. This was about six weeks ago. Since then he 
 has been existing on a stray quarter or half-dollar 
 here or there that others give him, with which he 
 buys food. When no one gives him anything he 
 fasts. He has no regular room but does little 
 jobs about the place here, for which they allow 
 him to sleep on the floor in an out-of-the-way 
 corner, when he can do no better. Occasionally 
 he has a chance, through the kindness of a clerk 
 in one of the cheap lodging-houses, to occupy a 
 bed, should there be one vacant when closing time 
 comes. All the while he has been writing home 
 for money, looking for it from day to day. He 
 28 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 has uncles and cousins there, but they do not be- 
 lieve that he is unable to work, and tell him he 
 should work for his board until he can secure 
 something better. They refuse to loan him money, 
 saying the sisters, who are younger, should have 
 the preference in this respect. The farm cannot 
 be mortgaged during their minority. He's too 
 proud to tell them just how he's living — they 
 might cast him off altogether if he were to do so, 
 and he lives along in this way, hoping from day to 
 day that they will relent and send him enough 
 to get home with. I give him a dollar occasion- 
 ally, which is as much as I can afford — it may be 
 a long while, if ever, before I'm able to earn any 
 money — and others do a little for him too, so 
 that he manages to keep on living, but that's about 
 all. He looks as if his disease had progressed 
 considerably during the past month. Worry eats 
 into a lunger's life worse than the bugs." 
 
 " He looks so unused to this kind of thing. 
 How did he get started in here ? " asked the Dea- 
 con, pity in every inflection of his voice. " Did 
 he play while he had money? " 
 
 " He doesn't know one card from another, and 
 says he never staked a dollar in his life. But he'd 
 been living in a cheap lodging-house, where every- 
 thing is cheerless and unpleasant. He looks as if 
 he had been fairly well brought up. You know 
 
 29 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 what a lonely, unhappy time a fellow has on first 
 coming, until he gets settled. The saloons are 
 always open, have the best locations, are bright 
 and cheerful, and a welcome is generally extended 
 to a presentable young fellow whether he spends 
 anything or not. It's perfectly natural they should 
 gravitate there when there's no other place for 
 them." 
 
 " I'll put a half on twenty-eight," said a young 
 fellow near the roulette table, suiting the action 
 to the word. 
 
 " Here's a town of fifteen thousand people, with 
 a church on every corner almost, with clubs and 
 fraternal organizations, and all the machinery of 
 a first-rate social life, but the thing most needful, 
 one would think, in a town with such a large 
 transient population, a Y. M. C. A., is lacking." 
 
 " That's so," assented the Deacon. " There's 
 hardly a town in the East of five thousand or up- 
 wards, but has its Y. M. C. A." 
 
 " If there were such an institution here," went 
 on White, " where a young fellow could meet 
 others, where some one would take an interest in 
 him, and advise him on occasion, where there was 
 a reading-room and library, perhaps the saloons 
 and gambling places wouldn't do such a big busi- 
 ness." 
 
 " Quite likely," assented the Deacon again. 
 30 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 " Damn the luck ! it's green again ! " came from 
 the young fellow who had put his half on twenty- 
 eight. 
 
 " Whenever the ball drops on green, all the 
 winnings, no matter how many are playing, go to 
 the dealer," explained White. " Roulette is a 
 square enough game, that is, it can't be manipu- 
 lated. Once the ball leaves the dealer's hand, it 
 spins around until it comes to a stop. It's just 
 as liable to drop into a red or black compartment, 
 as green. Green coming out twice this way is an 
 unusual run of luck for the dealer. It's quite a 
 deep game when you come to study it. Of course, 
 there's no system ever been devised to beat it. If 
 there had been, the game would have been changed 
 to meet it. In the long run, the chances are in 
 favor of the dealer, you bet ! The average player 
 knows this too. 
 
 11 Just now," continued White, harking back to 
 his former theme, " this element has its own way 
 entirely here, but it won't last forever. There has 
 already been a Y. M. C. A. here, as a matter of 
 fact, but it never was in a flourishing condition. 
 It lingered on for a while and then flickered out. 
 The reading-rooms were small, wholly inadequate 
 to the demand, and it came to be called the Lung- 
 ers' Retreat, because most of the seats were mo- 
 nopolized by them. This ' knocked ' it, and, as 
 
 3i 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 is asserted by many, was the cause of its discon- 
 tinuance. When they organize again they ought 
 to have their own building, with a roof-garden 
 on top, exclusively for lungers. A lady deeply 
 interested in sociological work, an invalid like us, 
 suggested this to me, and " 
 
 "She didn't use the word ' lunger'?" inter- 
 rupted the Deacon. 
 
 " Not in this instance. I think the idea an ex- 
 cellent one, and hope to see it adopted." 
 
 " I'll just copper that bet," came a voice from 
 the faro table. " Two on the ace ! " 
 
 " There could be a glass-enclosed room," went 
 on White, " for windy days, and eggs and milk 
 could be served at nominal prices from a booth. 
 Here they could remain all day in the pure air, 
 with magazines and newspapers, reclining chairs, 
 and such other conveniences as might be required. 
 I'll venture to say that many a life might be saved 
 in this way." 
 
 " Seventeen on the red ! " 
 
 " Such an organization could do much for the 
 welfare and advancement of the city," went on 
 White. " It is entirely within the province of such 
 an institution to interest its young men in civic 
 improvement and train them to good citizenship, 
 and they couldn't do better than to begin with 
 the lunger question. The ordinances in regard to 
 . 32 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 fumigating rooms and bedding occupied by con- 
 sumptives, as well as to spitting about, are never 
 properly enforced, and, as is well known, this is 
 the way the disease is propagated. A Y. M. C. A. 
 organization could appoint a committee of young 
 men who would see to the enforcement of the laws 
 in this respect as a matter of self-protection, and, 
 if necessary, have the city appoint a salaried official 
 for the purpose. 
 
 " Bellenden, the young Virginian I've been tell- 
 ing you of, n continued White, coming back to his 
 original subject, " drifted in here with others from 
 the cheap lodging-house where he roomed, and he 
 shouldn't be blamed, as there was no other place 
 for him to go to." 
 
 " He might have gotten himself a tent and gone 
 out onto the desert and * bached ' it as we are 
 doing." 
 
 " Yes, if he could have lived on air subsequent- 
 ly. After a while, the scientists may be able to 
 arrange things so that we can get our sustenance 
 from the oxygen in the air, but at present we 
 require groceries. It would have used up his fifty 
 dollars and more, to get the tent and furniture, 
 and get started. Besides, they don't know how 
 to proceed in the matter, and they're afraid of 
 loneliness in the country. An organized camp's 
 the thing, but you can't get into one for less than 
 
 33 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 nine or ten dollars a week. The pathos of this 
 disease is, that it mostly attacks young men like 
 us, who haven't yet had a chance to get money 
 ahead. If it came in middle age, we'd be better 
 prepared to meet it." 
 
 " Why don't you get Bellenden's home address 
 and write to his uncles? " asked the Deacon. 
 
 " I have, and received no answer. Then I 
 wrote a Masonic friend in New York, who I knew 
 had affiliations throughout that region. In due 
 time I received a reply, answering my questions 
 minutely, and confirming everything that Bellen- 
 den had said of himself. In the young fellow's 
 opinion, the uncles — there are two of them — care 
 very little whether he lives or dies. He has a 
 small life insurance which they keep up, and will 
 probably get hold of, as well as his land, when 
 he dies." 
 
 A slender, well-dressed, gentlemanly appearing 
 man entered, crossed the room, and spoke with 
 an employee at the farther end. White called 
 the Deacon's attention to him. 
 
 " He's one of the proprietors of the place, and 
 is what might be called a victim of circumstances 
 himself. He came here as a lunger, some years 
 ago. You'll think I'm stringing you when I tell 
 you he studied for the ministry, and, if his health 
 hadn't broken down, would probably be in the 
 
 34 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 pulpit to-day. He had been trying to work his 
 way through college but didn't have the physique 
 to stand it. Tuberculosis developed, and he had 
 to give it up before graduation. 
 
 11 On coming here he could have had a situation 
 in a store, but he wanted outside work. He had 
 scarcely any money and had to take the first thing 
 that presented itself, which was a job on a ranch. 
 But the work was hard, he was not accustomed to 
 it, and, after trying it a few months and finding 
 that his health was not improving, he left and 
 came back to town. Here he tried one thing after 
 another until he finally joined issues with a pros- 
 pector, a good mining man who had formerly kept 
 a saloon but had lost it, and was going to try his 
 luck again in the hills. After a year or so of 
 struggle, they made a strike which netted them 
 a few thousands, and returned to town and started 
 this place. They've been here now three years 
 and are doing a big business. He deals faro him- 
 self once in a while, but not generally, as the bad 
 air and stale tobacco smoke ain't just the best 
 thing in the world for him, and he's got sense 
 enough to know it." 
 
 While White was still speaking his attention 
 was drawn to a young man recently come in, 
 whose actions made it evident that he was suf- 
 fering great mental perturbation. He seemed un- 
 
 35 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 decided whether to remain and take a hand, or 
 to leave. He was evidently afraid of himself. 
 A glance at his features indicated to the practised 
 eyes of the friends that he was an invalid like 
 themselves. Although his clothing might have 
 been a little the worse for wear, there was a cer- 
 tain elegance in his bearing and manner which 
 attracted attention toward him. 
 
 The friends remarked on his attitude of inde- 
 cision, how he occasionally walked to the door, 
 then returned, looking at his watch frequently, and 
 showing evidences of inward commotion. Finally, 
 his scruples overcome, he sat down at a faro table 
 and began to play. A tenseness in his attitude 
 riveted their attention on him. An atmosphere of 
 disquietude seemed to envelop him. They had a 
 misgiving that all was not right. Something tragic 
 seemed about being enacted. 
 
 White, experienced in these things, would have 
 given a good deal to have been able to prevent 
 him from playing, but that he knew to be impossi- 
 ble now that he had begun. He saw that he was 
 playing cautiously, but he also saw that he was 
 losing, and the expression of his face — the set de- 
 spair, as he saw his little hoard dwindle — haunted 
 him for many a day thereafter. 
 
 The young fellow at no time played wildly or 
 for large stakes, but it was apparent that luck was 
 
 36 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 against him. When the end came, he rose from 
 his seat and left the place. He looked so wild 
 and haggard that White and the Deacon followed 
 him out with the object of engaging him in con- 
 versation, to which he scarcely responded. They 
 were, however, too well versed in the symptoms 
 of their common disease to deem it safe to leave 
 him, the excitement under which he was laboring 
 making a collapse something to be apprehended. 
 
 Directing their steps to a small park on another 
 street, they seated themselves and began talking 
 on indifferent subjects. 
 
 " What do you think of Roosevelt's attitude on 
 the Eastern question?" began White. 
 
 The young man looked at him with a dazed 
 expression but had no opinion to offer. 
 
 " I was over at the Park last Sunday," contin- 
 ued White, taking another tack, " to see the steer- 
 tying contest. They sure do their work up slick. 
 One steer was tied in just twenty-nine seconds from 
 the time the cowboy started his horse after him. 
 They had some broncho-busting too. Some of 
 these little bronchos are devils." 
 
 Still silence. 
 
 " The most fun is with the outlaws," persisted 
 White, resolved to hammer away until he could 
 incite some interest, or get some kind of an an- 
 swer. " That's the name they give those horses 
 
 37 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 which will not allow themselves to be ridden. 
 They can be saddled all right, and sometimes will 
 allow of their being harnessed, and can then be 
 made to work, but they won't stand for having 
 anyone on their backs. Throw them every time." 
 
 u The Tonto dam is a great project. There's 
 likely to be a big boom here when the government 
 irrigation works are completed," adduced the 
 Deacon in the laudable effort to do his part. But 
 it likewise failed to elicit a response. 
 
 11 I'm afraid all this irrigation is no good for 
 us lungers," postulated White, beginning the at- 
 tack again. " It makes it damp. What we need 
 is a dry atmosphere. A good place for a lunger's 
 camp would be up in Paradise Valley; but they 
 would have to give it another name. Paradise 
 wouldn't just be popular with lungers. It's too 
 suggestive. They'd have to get water there some- 
 how, too." 
 
 " There's plenty of water in the mountains 
 above there." It was the Deacon's turn. " There 
 would be no trouble in getting enough for domes- 
 tic purposes anyway." 
 
 The situation was becoming strained. " Have 
 you been long in Arizona?" asked White. 
 
 Thus directly appealed to, the young man had 
 no other course but to answer, which he did briefly. 
 " Since last autumn." 
 
 38 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 " Did you come alone? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " So did I. 'Way from New York. It takes 
 a good deal of sand for a lunger to go so far 
 away from home." 
 
 " Nothing matters much anyway, I begin to 
 think," said the stranger, closing his eyes wearily. 
 Then his body swayed and he would have fallen 
 had not White caught him. 
 
 But it was only a momentary weakness, and he 
 was soon able to sit up without help. 
 
 " Look here, my friend," said White. " You're 
 not well, and oughtn't to be around this way. 
 Have you anyone to look after you at your home? 
 You ought to go to bed right away. There's 
 always danger of a hemorrhage in your condi- 
 tion." 
 
 " That wouldn't matter much either," was the 
 reply. " Nothing makes much difference any 
 more." 
 
 White hesitated. He was loth to pry into the 
 affairs of the other, but had seen enough, earlier 
 in the day, to convince him that he was in the 
 presence of a trouble that might end in tragedy. 
 Most of an invalid's difficulties, he reflected, are 
 referable to a lack of money. He had little enough 
 himself, but here was a case where it would be 
 impossible to withhold such help as he could af- 
 
 39 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 ford. It was no time for delicacy; he plunged 
 into the subject. 
 
 "What's the matter? Strapped? I noticed 
 you at the game." 
 
 The other nodded. 
 
 " Suppose we take you home and get you to 
 bed. We'll call again to-morrow and will help 
 you out in some way." 
 
 It transpired that he had a room in a cheap 
 boarding-house near by, and the friends took him 
 there and helped him to bed. They then looked 
 up the woman who managed the house, asking her 
 to see to him occasionally, stating they would call 
 again the following morning. 
 
 " All right," was the reply, delivered with a 
 brisk, alert manner, " if you say you'll come to- 
 morrow, I'll see to him meanwhile, but we've seen 
 so much of that kind of people here in destitute 
 circumstances, that we don't feel sorry for them 
 any more. We've been blamed for letting sick 
 people suffer, but there are so many destitute in- 
 valids here, that to relieve them would be taking 
 the bread out of our own mouths. One gets hard- 
 ened to it. I used to feel sorry for them," she 
 added, observing the disapprobation in White's 
 face, " but now I think they shouldn't have come." 
 
 After assuring her again that they would cer- 
 tainly call there in the morning, the friends took 
 
 40 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 their departure. But the freshness and charm that 
 had so elated them earlier in the day seemed dis- 
 sipated by the incident, and they drove back to 
 Camp feeling depressed. 
 
 White, in his capacity of journalist, had often 
 had occasion to write up cases in which all sorts 
 of misconduct had proceeded from persons hither- 
 to free from any charge of wrong-doing. Under 
 the spell of the most mixed motives, they had been 
 driven to their action, as it were, by a force tem- 
 porarily beyond their control. He did not feel 
 inclined to blame Hamer, which was the young 
 man's name, for his weakness in this particular 
 instance, so much as for his folly in coming to 
 Arizona at all while the matter of funds for his 
 subsistence was so uncertain. It was an equally 
 great piece of folly, having come here, to remain 
 in the city, where all the conditions, physical and 
 mental, are, for the most part, unfavorable to 
 the invalid. Had he gone right out to the desert, 
 he would in all probability be in much better con- 
 dition now from every point of view. 
 
 Willard Hamer, back in the old Connecticut 
 village, even before his sickness had come on, had 
 never had a very easy time. His father had died 
 when the boy was twenty years of age, leaving no 
 means except the house in which he had lived. 
 The mother possessed but little initiative and it 
 
 41 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 devolved on Willard to take his father's place as 
 head of the family. His mother instituted a few 
 economies, but before the year was out the bills 
 had accumulated to such an extent that they were 
 compelled to borrow a few hundreds from a rela- 
 tion on a note. By the next year there was a 
 mortgage instead of a note. 
 
 " Your only chance is to go to Arizona," said 
 the doctor under whose charge he had placed him- 
 self. " Live in a tent if possible. I do not say 
 this will cure you. That depends largely on your- 
 self. Follow my directions and you will at least 
 prolong your life. Keep on here the way you are 
 going, and you won't live a year. Had you fol- 
 lowed my advice and stopped working six months 
 ago, your chances would be much better." 
 
 "Why not try a sanatorium here?" 
 
 " You are beyond the incipient stage. It would 
 be hard for you now to gain admission into any 
 but the high-priced private ones. These would 
 be more expensive than to go West. And you 
 would be separated from your people just the 
 same. You might get something to do there after 
 a while." 
 
 He was a little wizened man, this doctor, with 
 preternaturally bright eyes. Hamer, well dressed, 
 well favored, sat, revolving in his mind the advice 
 about Arizona, hardly taking in its purport. This 
 
 42 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 was one of his fairly good days, and he tried to 
 deceive himself into the belief that he was getting 
 better. There was a school-boy attachment, for 
 one thing, that made him cleave, with all his 
 strength, to the old home and to his position. 
 
 And then his mother. How could he give up 
 ambitions and duties for a life of inaction, of pos- 
 sible destitution thousands of miles away? He 
 tried to persuade himself that he was feeling bet- 
 ter. There was no temperature, the doctor said, 
 adding that it was a good sign, and he argued 
 from this that if he were careful, he might get 
 well at home. During the past six months, know- 
 ing that he was attacked by the disease, he had 
 collected considerable information on the subject, 
 learning among other things, that the disease is 
 easily curable if taken in time, often curing itself 
 without the individual knowing of its presence. 
 Might it not be so with him? 
 
 He lulled himself into security a little longer; 
 then came a sudden turn for the worse, and he 
 was compelled to give up his position. 
 
 The bait held out to him by his physician — 
 that he might be able to get something to do after 
 reaching the southwest, had made it easier for him 
 to take the step. Could he but earn enough to 
 pay his board, he argued, it would not be so bad. 
 
 Through the sale of some clawfoot mahogany 
 43 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 they had left, funds were obtained that enabled 
 him to purchase a colonist's ticket for Arizona, 
 and his employer gave him a present of fifty dol- 
 lars. With the fallacious hope before him of earn- 
 ing some money while making the cure, he remained 
 in the city on coming to his destination, taking 
 quarters in a cheap boarding-house. His fifty 
 dollars were still intact, but it represented nearly 
 all his available means. The ready money that 
 he possessed on giving up his position he had 
 divided with his mother, and his portion had been 
 used in necessary purchases and in traveling ex- 
 penses en route. 
 
 The woman with whom he boarded spoke en- 
 couragingly to him about his probable recovery, 
 which emboldened him to ask about the prospects 
 of obtaining work after a while. He was told 
 that, in a few months — when he was better — there 
 would probably be no trouble about it. But when 
 his money was gone, she advised him to go back 
 home, as no sick man ought to work. He, how- 
 ever, tried, in a half-hearted way, to get work, 
 and when that failed wrote home for money, say- 
 ing that if he could get nothing to do he would 
 have to return. The money came sooner than it 
 was expected. His mother did not enlighten him 
 as to how it was obtained, and he did not ask. 
 When it was received, he began making prepara- 
 
 44 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 tions to leave for the East, but with every hour 
 his unwillingness to go increased, and the woman, 
 noticing this, told him that as he was improv- 
 ing, it would be a pity to go back, and undo 
 all the benefit he had gained. It ended by his 
 remaining. 
 
 " Had I come to Arizona at once, when the 
 doctor told me of my condition," said Hamer in 
 telling his story to the two friends when they called 
 next morning, " I might now be able to do a little 
 work, but I kept on working for nearly six months 
 longer, as I could not bring myself to give up my 
 position when there was no income from any other 
 source. Finally I had to stop, as I became unable 
 to do my work." 
 
 He was still in bed, and the friends urged him 
 not to exert himself any more, saying they would 
 call again the next morning. They had formu- 
 lated a plan over night, whereby it was arranged 
 to bring him out to the Camp as soon as he would 
 be in condition to make the change. When they 
 communicated this to him he was immediately 
 interested, and insisted on going on with his story, 
 averring that he felt pretty well. 
 
 " My mother has been keeping boarders since 
 I have been here, and has managed to send me a 
 pittance on which I have existed. The money I 
 lost yesterday had been sent me over a week ago, 
 
 45 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 with the injunction that it be used to go home 
 with. I didn't want to go home; there would 
 have been but the one result had I done so. I 
 balanced the matter and resolved to take a desper- 
 ate chance; I would either double it or lose all. 
 If I were compelled to go home it would 
 have been all up with me any way, so I took the 
 chance. I don't blame the man who runs the 
 game. If I had won I would have taken the 
 money. He told me not to play when I lost my 
 weekly remittance once, saying that the chances 
 were too great." 
 
 A violent fit of coughing interrupted the narra- 
 tive and he was compelled to desist. When he 
 was somewhat rested the friends rose to take their 
 departure. 
 
 " I want to leave here," said Hamer wearily. 
 " Come for me to-morrow. I'll be able to go all 
 right to-morrow. I'm tired of the city. I'll be 
 glad to get away from here." 
 
 When the visitors came down, they found the 
 landlady waiting in the hall, evidently desirous of 
 speaking with them. Before they had an oppor- 
 tunity of telling her their plan of taking the in- 
 valid to their Camp, she broached the subject of 
 his removal. 
 
 " Your friend has been talking about going 
 back East," said she, " and I think that would be 
 
 46 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 the best thing he could do. His mother wants him 
 back, he tells me, and he would do much better 
 there than here. Have him go before he spends 
 all his money." 
 
 White for the moment was nonplussed. Then 
 he decided that it would be better to acquaint her 
 with the exact condition of affairs, which he did 
 as briefly as possible, adding that they intended 
 taking him to their Camp as soon as he could be 
 moved. 
 
 " But if he hasn't any money, your taking him 
 to your Camp won't do him any good, unless he 
 can get more funds from his mother, and he is 
 not by any means certain of this." 
 
 "What else is there to do?" rejoined White. 
 " He cannot remain where he is, that is evident. 
 We'll have to take care of him until some other 
 arrangements can be made." 
 
 11 Send him home. He isn't going to live much 
 longer anyway, and he might better die at home 
 with his people than here among strangers. A 
 half-rate ticket can be procured through the board 
 of supervisors if he's really destitute. I think I 
 can manage that part of it, if his friends will make 
 up the money to pay for it. Or, there's another 
 way, on second thoughts. He can go back in 
 charge of a corpse. The railroad companies re- 
 quire that a corpse be always accompanied; that 
 
 47 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 is, it takes two first-class tickets to transport it. 
 Except for his sleeping-berth and meals, he can 
 go back without cost in that way. IVe had con- 
 siderable experience in these matters. By the time 
 he's well enough to travel, some one is almost sure 
 to die and have to be sent home." 
 
 The woman spoke in a business-like, energetic 
 manner, totally unconscious of there being any- 
 thing anomalous or incongruous in her proposition. 
 
 The spectacle of a dying man awaiting such an 
 opportunity, and then taking the three-thousand- 
 mile journey under such conditions, rose up dra- 
 matically before White, and journalist that he 
 was, he thought of the newspaper article that 
 might be made of it. 
 
 " It oversteps the line of pathos," he said, when 
 they were outside, the break in his voice disguised 
 by the grin summoned to his features. " There 
 is something grotesque, sardonic, almost ludicrous 
 in such a proposition. That a sentient human be- 
 ing should be so the sport of circumstance ! We'll 
 have him out to the Camp anyway, and later, he 
 can do as he likes about going home; but if he 
 decides to go, he don't go with no corpse (it was 
 the custom of the Camp to multiply negatives 
 when desiring to add force to a statement), not 
 if the Court knows herself. He'll go unincum- 
 bered if I have to pay his fare myself. I hope 
 
 4 8 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 he'll be able to come with us to-morrow. I'd like 
 to get him away from there." 
 
 But when they came for him the next morning, 
 he had already taken his long journey, the journey 
 which each must take alone. Hamer had gone 
 home. 
 
 49 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 FROM out a storm of bitterness and self-scorn, 
 with his neck bowed to the yoke, Brans- 
 combe had come to the desert in much the same 
 frame of mind as formerly the hunted criminal 
 ran to sanctuary. His coming to the West seemed 
 to him always after, like a flight to cover, not a 
 course in which he had any choice. True, he had 
 no pursuers, — he was escaping from himself only, 
 but his plight seemed none the less desperate to 
 him. He came in September, six weeks or more 
 before the invalids began coming in any numbers, 
 selecting a location a few miles from town and 
 near a car line, where he pitched his tent, taking 
 his meals at a ranch-house near by. This would 
 do as a preliminary, he thought. Later, when he 
 should have acquired some experience of the coun- 
 try, he would go well out into the desert. That 
 was what he would like, he thought; to get far 
 away, for a while at least, from the presence of any 
 human being. He had seen enough of people to 
 last him a long while. He would have to have 
 an Indian or two to attend to his wants, to go 
 
 50 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 into town for supplies, etc., but they wouldn't 
 count. In anticipation he already saw himself out 
 there, his tents and ponies making an imposing 
 outfit, the trunkful of books unpacked, his draw- 
 ing materials and paints at hand. 
 
 Meanwhile, he spent many hours each day in 
 the saddle. Purposely cutting himself off from 
 humankind in his resentment, the need of the 
 human for sympathy, for comradery, for coopera- 
 tion yet remained, and the pony became his re- 
 source. He found all of these attributes to a 
 limited extent in his broncho, and a good under- 
 standing soon became established between horse 
 and rider. 
 
 Usually, he had no particular goal, leaving 
 the decision as to the course with the pony, which, 
 grown weary of civilization even as had his master, 
 and as if atavistically recalling scenes of former 
 wildness, always took to the desert, on being given 
 a free rein. 
 
 The lure of the mountains — how irresistibly 
 they invite, with what force they attract in these 
 desert lands! Their colorings, ever changing 
 according to the hour, the distance, or the atmos- 
 pheric conditions — now sapphire, now deepest 
 purple verging into black, again amethystine, and 
 at sunset flame-encircled in myriads of tones — 
 were a phenomenon of which he never tired. 
 
 5* 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Sometimes he would take his Indian boy, Loyola, 
 along, whose stolidity was such that he was scarcely 
 more of a restraint to him than the broncho. On 
 these occasions he would extend his trips a day's 
 journey or more into the mountains, where he 
 would camp for the night, returning by a different 
 route. Only the barest necessities were taken on 
 these mountain trips; sleeping-bags, canteens for 
 water, bacon, hardtack, and coffee. 
 
 As with all quiet people to whom conversation 
 does not come easily or spontaneously, he had a 
 good flow of thought, and found it no hardship 
 to be alone. His thoughts, when not too disci- 
 plinary, served to beguile him. In the profound 
 silence of these wastes, seemingly as yet untrodden 
 by the foot of man, Fancy could unobstructedly 
 weave her pictures for his delectation, and he felt 
 less alone there, than sometimes when in a crowd. 
 
 The reserve in which he wrapped himself, the 
 solitude in which he lived, were helpful in giving 
 him opportunity for reflection and assimilation. 
 He was glad to be here, away from the rattle and 
 bang of the city, where he might settle old scores 
 with himself and think out a new plan of life. 
 
 He had hitherto failed to realize any of the 
 ideals with which he had plentifully supplied him- 
 self on starting out in life. He had long been 
 pursuing a downward course, drifting with the 
 
 52 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 current, and discontent and foreboding had grown 
 apace with the passing years. In the pursuit of 
 Pleasure, which had chiefly been a pursuit rather 
 than an attainment, the jade ever flying from 
 before him, pursue he her never so ardently — 
 these ideals had been allowed to slip through his 
 fingers, and he now realized, like an unsuccessful 
 gambler, that he had been a loser on all counts, 
 staking what he knew to be best for a doubtful 
 gain and losing both. 
 
 Branscombe never quite gave up his faith in 
 himself, and this is perhaps the best feature of 
 this ofttime pitiful human nature of ours, that no 
 matter how often we fall, we are always ready to 
 rise and make another attempt. 
 
 This blase man of the world, just turned thirty- 
 six, whose black hair was already streaked with 
 gray, who had tired of everything, been every- 
 where, exhausted everything, had come to the 
 Southwest almost as a last resource. 
 
 To such a pass had he been brought in the old 
 life that he had contemplated suicide as an escape 
 from the thrall of things, but his curiously vacil- 
 lating disposition had saved him from this crown- 
 ing folly. " The dice of God are always loaded," 
 said Emerson. To have lived to such poor pur- 
 pose that at thirty-six oblivion came to be the best 
 that was desired — here was food for reflection. 
 
 53 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Surely the fault must be in himself, he reflected 
 with a humility born of his introspection. 
 
 He had been his own master since coming of 
 age, his parents having died some years previous 
 to that event. He was their only child. His 
 father had been a physician of some prominence, 
 and would have preferred that the son follow in 
 his footsteps, but did not even suggest this to him, 
 not wishing to bias him in any way. The father 
 died during the young man's first year at Harvard, 
 and the mother, always rather delicate, followed 
 him a year later. 
 
 This left him quite untrammeled so far as any 
 real authority over him went. True, there was a 
 guardian who had been appointed at the same 
 time as the administrator, as he was still a minor, 
 and who sought to counsel him; but, as guardian 
 and ward were two hundred miles apart, and the 
 divergence of their views of life was still greater, 
 this did not count for much. 
 
 From the first, the guardian, who was an at- 
 torney, assumed as a matter of course that he 
 would begin the study of medicine as soon as the 
 academic course was finished. He frequently re- 
 ferred to it in his letters as if it were a settled 
 fact, and did not concern himself much in the 
 matter. 
 
 But the junior year had been a hard one for the 
 54 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 young man, owing in part to the attraction which 
 the city began to exert over him, and the conse- 
 quent loss of time from his studies. So hard had 
 it been that he had been barely able to pull through 
 and he began to tire of the whole thing. 
 
 " You assume in your letters," he wrote his 
 guardian when he had determined on his course, 
 " that it is all settled about my taking up the study 
 of medicine. I think it only right to tell you that 
 I have no such intention. There is no reason in 
 the world why I should be a physician except that 
 my father was one, and I think that an insufficient 
 one. It seems to me that all my labor in acquiring 
 an academic education would in large part be nulli- 
 fied thereby. Of what use culture when you 
 don't have the leisure to enjoy it? My father's 
 case is an example to me. He worked all the time, 
 seldom being able to read anything outside the 
 medical journals. And no one will contend that 
 the medical profession in itself conduces to culture. 
 Rather the reverse, I should say. There is not 
 much that is elevating in studying about sores and 
 the many other disgusting physical ailments that 
 beset humanity. In my estimation, it's bad art, 
 that last act of Camille. It would be sufficient 
 simply to allude to the fact that she was dying of 
 consumption, and not portray anything so unpleas- 
 ant before an audience out for pleasure. It would 
 
 55 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 depress me, too, always to be in close contact 
 with morbid, unhealthy people. Their egotism 
 is another thing that I could never adapt myself 
 to. Invalids seem to think that by virtue of their 
 disease, everyone should defer to them, that they 
 and their ailments are the most important matters 
 in the universe. 
 
 " Then these people with imaginary ailments to 
 whom you have to give a placebo and sympathize 
 with — these were the greatest trial my father had 
 to contend with. I must say I don't see how a phy- 
 sician can have any patience with them ! They'd 
 get the facts of the case from me if by doing so 
 I made enemies of them for life ! 
 
 " My father used to say, too, that he disliked 
 taking people's money; that it was bad enough for 
 them to be sick without bleeding them in addi- 
 tion. The physician, I take it, more than any 
 other,, should be an altruist, and I am not cut out 
 for the part. 
 
 "* " But my strongest objection to medicine as a 
 profession is its instability. In medicine nothing 
 is ever settled. Much of what my father studied 
 so painstakingly in his student days, and in which 
 there was such difficulty in passing the examina- 
 tions, had all to be unlearned again by a still slower 
 process and something new substituted for it, 
 which in turn has long ago been superseded by 
 
 S6 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 other discoveries. There isn't much encourage- 
 ment in studying, with the probability ahead of 
 you that a good percentage of what you are acquir- 
 ing will eventually prove to be wrong. It would 
 make me still more vacillating and undecided than 
 I naturally am. 
 
 " I grant you that the work of alleviating suffer- 
 ing, in the hands of capable conscientious men, to 
 whom the work itself is of more moment than the 
 money reward, is noble and honorable to a degree 
 that no other work is. I frankly confess that I 
 am not disinterested enough for this. 
 
 11 My mother hoped I would choose a business 
 career. She always maintained that the most re- 
 spectable class in this country is the merchant class, 
 to which her father belonged — that it is more 
 dignified to hold the reins and control things than 
 to be at everyone's beck and call as is the case with 
 professional people. A business career like that 
 of Grandfather Larrimore would indeed be less 
 distasteful to me than any other, provided it were 
 necessary for me to earn my living. But I shall 
 not have to earn money. From what you have 
 told me, as well as my mother, I know that my 
 future would be secure if I never earned a dollar. 
 As I will be able to afford it, there is no real reason 
 why should I not follow my bent. And Art is 
 really the one thing to which I am drawn. Art 
 
 57 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 endures. Culture, it seems to me, is the thing best 
 worth living for. Since my father got no benefit 
 from his life of drudgery, it seems to me I am the 
 more entitled to it. My plan (and I hope you 
 will concur in it) is to go abroad immediately after 
 Commencement." 
 
 This letter brought the guardian to Cambridge 
 within a few days after receiving it. " A most 
 amazing young man," was his thought on reading 
 it the second time. " I must see him at once and 
 prevent him giving up his college course in any 
 event. In these matters quick action is necessary, 
 before the idea becomes fixed in the mind. I must 
 get him to continue at college for this last year 
 under any circumstances. By that time his better 
 judgment will prevail." 
 
 When the young man presented himself at the 
 hotel where his guardian was stopping, in response 
 to a telephone call, the latter, feeling that he had 
 the right on his side, looked forward to an easy 
 victory. The young fellow looked so clean and 
 wholesome, so well-bred and intelligent, that he 
 would be sure to see the subject in the right light, 
 when he should be through with him. But when 
 the young man warmed up to his subject, the elder 
 began to have his doubts. 
 
 " My father used to say," said Branscombe, 
 rebutting a statement of the guardian that medi- 
 
 S8 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 cine must be the most interesting profession going 
 — " my father used to say that if there's a fool 
 side to people they seem willing and anxious to 
 exhibit it to the physician, no matter how carefully 
 they conceal it from all the rest of the world; and 
 then he quoted from Voltaire : * Les hommes sont 
 partout egalement fous! " 
 
 " Yet your father wanted you to take up the 
 study of it as soon as you had graduated. He 
 spoke to me on the subject once, some years ago." 
 
 " He never said anything to me about it, and 
 my mother was opposed to it, as I said in my letter. 
 Father used to tell my mother that people were 
 such fools where the doctor was concerned, that 
 only a man of unusual probity could resist taking 
 advantage of them, and I quite agree with him in 
 this finding. You will hear the most intelligent 
 people say, * My doctor orders me to do so and 
 so,' or, * Dr. Blank says I must ! ' etc., etc., just 
 as if they had no volition in the matter. The in- 
 credible part is that while the physician is quite 
 as fallible as the average mortal, people always 
 take him seriously, obeying his orders for the most 
 part unquestioningly, often against their better 
 judgment, and sometimes continue when they 
 know it to be to their injury. My father said once 
 that he had people come to his office who, if di- 
 rected by him to go out on the street at a certain 
 
 59 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 hour every day and stand on their heads, would 
 try to carry out the order. And then he mimicked 
 one in a high-pitched voice : ' Doctor says I must 
 go out every morning and stand on my head. I 
 don't know why; I don't see what good that will 
 do, but he tells me to, and I suppose I'll have to.' 
 
 " Father wound up that time by saying that he 
 had lost respect for the entire human race through 
 being in the medical profession." 
 
 14 Your father was inclined to be cynical, I think, 
 in his later years." 
 
 " It's enough to make any one cynical, to be 
 always looking for a little common sense in the 
 people you meet and never finding it. At first, it 
 seemed a huge joke to him to have people take 
 him so seriously, hanging on his words as if they 
 were inspired. Then he used to experiment with 
 them, trying to tax their credulity, but everything 
 went." 
 
 11 The introspective, analytical mind, such as 
 your father possessed, is more apt at discovering 
 defects than good qualities. He probably would 
 have found as much to criticise in any other voca- 
 tion that he might have chosen." 
 
 " He told a woman once that there was great 
 benefit to be had from bread pills properly made 
 and judiciously administered, and actually got her 
 to make them herself. After giving her minute 
 
 60 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 directions as to the mode of preparing them, in 
 the making of which he said she must use only 
 perfectly fresh baker's bread, he prescribed a regi- 
 men for her to the effect that she must go without 
 breakfast, abandon coffee entirely, and take one 
 of her bread pills a quarter of an hour after meals. 
 The joke of it was, she actually improved under 
 the treatment, and went about telling people what 
 a good doctor he was. The lawyer isn't spoiled 
 in this way, I know." 
 
 " The attorney advises and counsels, but acts 
 on his own initiative in many cases. If his ability 
 to handle the case is questioned, he retires from 
 the case much as does a physician." 
 
 11 But he doesn't order! he advises and counsels, 
 and only when his advice coincides with the better 
 judgment of his client is it followed. And the 
 lawyer doesn't usually make any important move 
 without the knowledge and consent of the client. 
 A good litigant, the kind that wins out, generally 
 knows at least as much about his case as does the 
 lawyer. Sometimes he knows more. If people 
 used the common sense in their relations with phy- 
 sicians as with their lawyers — in other words, if 
 they would study up their case so as to be able 
 to cooperate intelligently rather than to follow 
 blindly, it would result in many more cases being 
 found amenable to treatment. 
 
 61 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 " And the lawyer really would be more justified 
 in giving orders than advice, as he is on surer 
 ground. There is something stable about the law. 
 The lawyer knows just what results a certain move 
 will produce. My mother had many talks with 
 me on the subject during the year she lived here 
 after my father^ death, and she confirmed my 
 own preconceived ideas in the matter." 
 
 " Well, would you be willing to compromise on 
 the law? By the way you argue your case perhaps 
 this would be the best course," said the guardian, 
 his eyes twinkling. " However, don't decide 
 hastily. Finish your course, and, if you like, you 
 might, after graduating, go abroad for a year be- 
 fore beginning the serious work of life." 
 
 " I don't need to compromise," was the reply. 
 " I shall soon be my own master, and intend to live 
 my own life. I must do the best possible with it. 
 Don't mistake me ; that which seems right for one 
 will not do at all for another. Each individual 
 is unique of his kind. I am glad to be different. 
 I am an individualist to the core. If I've learned 
 nothing else here, I have this, and I've learned it 
 principally from those in my class who incline the 
 other way. Many of the men here are taken up 
 with sociology and talk big about being collec- 
 tivists, and the duty of the individual to the whole. 
 I wish to accentuate my individuality rather than 
 
 62 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 merge it. Admirable as it may be to devote your- 
 self to the common cause, to take the part of the 
 under dog, it's not my vocation; it involves a de- 
 gree of self-abnegation that is altogether foreign 
 to me. I'd rather play the part of Nietzsche's 
 Superman, developing, augmenting at the cost of 
 others if need be; I have no, desire to sacrifice 
 myself for the good of the race. My aim is to 
 improve this ego that I call myself — to bring it 
 up to its highest state of efficiency — to make the 
 most out of it that is possible." 
 
 " You cannot do that better than by remaining 
 right here until you graduate. A year longer will 
 do it, with hard work. Don't disappoint the ex- 
 pectations of your friends. Graduate first; then, 
 if you are still of the same opinion, I will make no 
 more opposition." 
 
 But this did not meet the young man's views, 
 and, as he lacked only a few months of his major- 
 ity, attaining it before the fall term began, he 
 took the matter into his own hands. In conjunc- 
 tion with the administrator, he adjusted his affairs 
 during the summer, making preparations for a 
 long absence, after which, he proceeded direct to 
 Paris. 
 
 63 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 BRANSCOMBE remained abroad nearly ten 
 years, spending most of his time in Paris, 
 ostensibly in the study of art. He established 
 himself in luxurious bachelor quarters, leading a 
 more or less Sybaritic existence, dabbling in music 
 and literature, achieving nothing in any direction. 
 Selfishness, listlessness, waste of opportunity, abso- 
 lute uselessness — the so-called small sins, which 
 taken en masse, are more soul-corroding than 
 crime — these had been the things by which he had 
 been led, and which had well-nigh wrought his 
 ruin. 
 
 The awakening had come through a crisis, an 
 upheaval, from which he at last had come to a 
 realization of himself. A boat accident in which 
 his companion had lost her life, and in which his 
 own had been jeopardized, had brought him up 
 by a sharp turn. 
 
 It was while with a yachting party on Long 
 Island Sound that the tragedy had occurred, which, 
 for the time being at least, had changed the current 
 of his life. And it had been brought about by 
 what at first had seemed a very simple, unimportant 
 
 6 4 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 circumstance. Looking aft, in the midst of the 
 champagne drinking, Branscombe had caught sight 
 of the dinghy trailing at the stern, and asked the 
 lady sitting next to him to occupy it with him for 
 a while. There was no sailing-master aboard, 
 the owner feeling himself competent to handle the 
 little craft, and as no objection was offered to the 
 project, the transfer to the small boat was made, 
 though not without some difficulty, as already the 
 wind was fresh. 
 
 As it increased in violence, some of the party 
 were for taking in a reef, but the skipper, with 
 the elation due to the champagne, as well as the 
 swift motion of the boat through the water, would 
 not consider this, and the yacht sped along at 
 a spanking rate. The momentum soon became 
 such, that the small boat, trailing behind, was 
 thrashed from side to side with such force that 
 the occupants were unable to retain their seats. 
 Buffeted about, their bodies bruised and sore, they 
 were in momentary peril of being thrown over- 
 board, the party on the yacht meanwhile being 
 totally unconscious of their plight. Branscombe's 
 companion frantically appealed to him for help, 
 but when he signified, mostly by motion, that the 
 only thing he could do was to attempt to climb 
 along the hawser and so reach the yacht, she clung 
 to him in an agony of terror at the thought of 
 
 65 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 being left alone. He shouted himself hoarse, but 
 the wind and the swashing of the water against 
 the hull, prevented his cries from being heard 
 by the party, evidently too much engrossed in their 
 own affairs to consider the others much. 
 
 Finally, a heavy lurch in an unguarded moment 
 threw his companion so that her head struck the 
 gunwale, and she was rendered unconscious. 
 
 His own condition was precarious; his body 
 seemed bruised all over from the buffeting it was 
 undergoing — his eyeballs seemed on fire — his 
 throat constricted. It was impossible for him to 
 do anything for his companion beyond preventing 
 her from being washed overboard. It was char- 
 acteristic of the man that, while formerly he had 
 cared nothing for his life, and had often justified 
 suicide, now that death was imminent, he found 
 himself most unwilling to meet it. 
 
 How he longed for succor, not alone on his 
 companion's account, but, be it said, on his own 
 too! After all, life was sweet, something so 
 precious that only a fool would throw it away. 
 Could he but reach the yacht! He would give 
 everything that he possessed to be once more 
 safe. He began to despair of attracting the atten- 
 tion of his party. He remembered their parting 
 injunction, to ring if he wanted any more cham- 
 pagne; it seemed ages to him since he had heard 
 
 66 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 this badinage. In the imminence of the danger 
 he realized that he was as far from help practi- 
 cally, as if he had been cast adrift. He began 
 considering whether it would not be advisable to 
 cut the hawser, and so at least relieve the tugging, 
 which every moment threatened to pitch them 
 overboard. But he realized that he would soon 
 be left behind by the yacht at the rate she was 
 scudding ahead, and that she might get miles 
 away before they would be missed. It was near 
 nightfall; once separated from the yacht, all help 
 from that quarter would have to be abandoned. 
 
 Could he row to shore in his almost disabled 
 condition? They were some miles from land, and 
 the sea was running high; he might be swamped; 
 he might be run into by one of the big steamers; 
 the new peril might be worse than the present one. 
 He decided to remain where he was, clinging to 
 the possibility that the others might come to his 
 relief at any moment. 
 
 Finally, it occurred to him to attempt throwing 
 something into the yacht to attract the attention 
 of the others. He took off his shoes, and threw 
 them, one at a time, aiming for the deck near the 
 cockpit, but his arm v/as bruised and sore, and the 
 small boat lurched to such an extent that they fell 
 wide of the mark. A silver dollar was then tried 
 but with no better result. His match-box also 
 
 6 7 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 went by the board and he was in despair for a 
 while. Then, goaded to desperation he removed 
 the shoes from the feet of his companion, and, 
 taking a wet newspaper that lay in the bottom of 
 the dinghy, he fastened it between them with his 
 braces, making a kind of ball with it. With this 
 he was more successful, landing it in the cockpit. 
 In the effort of throwing it, however, he had risen 
 in order to get a surer aim, and, a heavy sea strik- 
 ing the dinghy, she careened almost to the point 
 of capsizing. She soon righted, but when he was 
 able to look about him he found himself alone in 
 the boat; his companion had been washed over- 
 board. 
 
 Meanwhile, the skipper had begun hauling 
 in the mainsail in order to come to their relief, 
 when Branscombe succeeded in acquainting the 
 others with the catastrophe, upon which the yacht 
 was immediately put about in search for the body. 
 But it was growing dusk and there was a sea run- 
 ning; they cruised about for an hour or more 
 without avail, and were finally compelled to give 
 up the search and return, seeing the hopelessness 
 of continuing it longer. 
 
 When they made port Branscombe reported the 
 matter to the authorities, and was held to await the 
 finding of the coroner's jury. 
 
 It was midsummer and no murder had occurred 
 68 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 within the vicinity of New York for a month past. 
 There had been a dearth of other news, and the 
 papers took up the matter with avidity, demanding 
 a rigid inquiry. When the body floated in to shore 
 a few days thereafter, another sensation was pro- 
 duced by the fact that the lady's shoes were miss- 
 ing, which was commented on with headlines half 
 a foot in length by some of the papers. It was 
 openly charged that murder had probably been 
 committed, the absence of the shoes being sup- 
 posed to furnish evidence in this direction. 
 
 At the inquest, to which each of the party had 
 been subpoenaed, it was brought out that they had 
 been indulging freely in champagne at the time of 
 the occurrence. The owner of the yacht was cen- 
 sured for this, and also for having no competent 
 person in command. Had there been a sailing- 
 master aboard, such use of the small boat, the 
 newspapers pointed out, would not have been per- 
 mitted. 
 
 It was Branscombe, however, who had to stand 
 the brunt of the examination, and the press con- 
 tinued to score him as being the principal actor in 
 the tragedy, demanding that the Grand Jury look 
 into the matter. It was pointed out by the more 
 conservative of the journals, which had refrained 
 from the murder charge, that, as the cross-seats 
 of the dinghy were fastened down, comparative 
 
 6 9 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 safety might have been obtained for the lady 
 had she been directed to brace herself under 
 one of them. Branscombe was called sharply 
 to account for this oversight, as well as for 
 not having at once, on noticing the danger, 
 cut the hawser before he became disabled, in which 
 event he would have been able to row to shore in 
 case he had not been observed by the party on 
 the larger boat. 
 
 Short biographies of his family appeared, with 
 illustrations. A photo-engraving of his grand- 
 father Larrimore, in old-fashioned stock and 
 standing collar, taken from a painting in one of 
 the libraries, appeared in a Sunday paper, together 
 with a reproduction of the Larrimore warehouses, 
 from whence the family fortune had come. And 
 many a sermonette was preached; many a warn- 
 ing read off and eagerly absorbed by the public 
 anent this prodigal son, this gilded youth, this 
 gray-haired roue, by all of which titles he was 
 alluded to. 
 
 They gave too, an illustration of Branscombe 
 Manor in Northumberland, to the present occu- 
 pant of which his father had been cousin. They 
 went into minute details of the life there, what 
 they had for? breakfast, the house-parties they 
 gave, how my lady, although upward of seventy, 
 was a most indefatigable society woman, with a 
 
 70 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 picture of her in ball costume — how they employed 
 twenty servants, and much other information cal- 
 culated to throw light on the mystery. 
 
 His past life was put under the searchlight and 
 whatever of discreditable action that could be 
 brought forward was unearthed and given pub- 
 licity. They facetiously discussed, in cold type, 
 his relations with Miss Pinkie Bellmore, a former 
 vaudeville favorite, popular in the Tenderloin 
 district, to whom, they said, he had reached out 
 a helping hand, enabling her to graduate from so 
 questionable a mode of life into an establishment 
 exclusively her own in an uptown apartment 
 house, where she was known as Mrs. Adelaide 
 Atkinson — at least that was the name under the 
 bell-button — where she lived in the strictest retire- 
 ment, denying herself to all callers except her 
 patron. 
 
 Unsavory stories of other members of the party 
 were also adduced in the effort to throw light on 
 the matter. 
 
 Notoriety of a certain kind, the kind that was 
 not inconsistent with respectability, they were not 
 averse to; quite the contrary! rather was it to be 
 courted, in a world so large and with the aver- 
 age individual so insignificant. But notoriety that 
 has to do with police inquiry — that was quite 
 a different matter. They felt virtuously indignant 
 
 71 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 that they should be subjected to this, and blamed 
 Branscombe for it, holding themselves aloof, criti- 
 cizing him severely for having proposed the use 
 of the small boat from which all the trouble had 
 sprung. 
 
 They blamed him too for his lack of resource 
 in not being able to extricate himself, after plung- 
 ing into the difficulty. It was like him; he never 
 had any savoir faire, any initiative, they told one 
 another. What a fiasco he had made of his detec- 
 tive part that time in the farce, when all that was 
 required of him was to go on the stage with a 
 tray as a waiter and look stupid while gathering 
 evidence for the divorce. Not even to have sense 
 enough for that! True, he had been urged to it 
 against his will and without any preparation, 
 Winslow, who was to have assumed the part, 
 having missed a train, and wired that he could 
 not make it, and that they must put some one else 
 in his place — but why should he undertake it if 
 he couldn't come out of it all right? A man ought 
 to be equal to his emergency. And now he had 
 compromised them all. They were not greatly 
 given to Biblical quotations, Branscombe's friends, 
 but one of them, Bainbridge, repeating a motto 
 from Proverbs on his calendar, the gist of which 
 was that a man might better meet a bear robbed 
 of her whelps rather than a fool in his folly, said 
 
 72 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 that he now indorsed everything that Solomon 
 had ever said about fools, and that they were more 
 to be shunned than the proverbially unlucky man. 
 
 In their resentment they influenced others 
 against him, so that he found himself almost alone 
 in his trouble. Almost. There was one exception. 
 One had remained true, sending him each morn- 
 ing during his detention in the Tombs and for a 
 week after his release a bunch of violets, the donor 
 remaining anonymous. At first he speculated long 
 as to the author of the little gifts, the violets re- 
 minding him of his Paris days, but could come to 
 no conclusion in the matter. 
 
 He knew his friends well enough to be able to 
 imagine pretty nearly the sort of talk that was 
 being circulated about him — the sneers, the whis- 
 pered inuendoes, in which charges ranging from 
 cowardice to murder were going the rounds; he 
 had helped in this kind of thing himself with 
 others as the butt — it was all quite familiar. And 
 now it had come home to him. It had come to 
 this, that he had brought the good old family 
 names into disrepute. His sins at last had found 
 him out. Like the fox of which Kant writes, that 
 is to be punished not for any particular act of 
 thieving, but rather for being the kind of animal 
 that prefers to make its living by thieving, so was 
 it with him; he had chosen this kind of life, of 
 
 73 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 which such visitations as he was now undergoing 
 were only to be predicated, and though innocent 
 in this particular instance, he recognized that he 
 was being punished on general principles. 
 
 A curious humility took possession of him. It 
 was as if, in the conduct of his friends toward him 
 in his trouble, he for the first time recognized his 
 own conduct and the character that had inspired 
 it — this thoroughly selfish character, albeit his 
 own, which had been revealed to him; this char- 
 acter, which in his self-scorn it seemed to him had 
 scarcely a redeeming trait. 
 
 Spiritual stresses held him in thrall. Among 
 all the medley of emotions caused by the revela- 
 tion, shame and surprise came to the fore. That 
 he should have so deteriorated, so have degener- 
 ated from the good old stock from which he had 
 sprung ! He was like one under conviction of sin. 
 He stood before his conscience shorn of all guise 
 — shamed — humiliated. 
 
 The patterns which come out on the web of 
 our lives are after all of our own weaving. We 
 become what we aim to become ; we are that which 
 we have striven to be, whether for good or for ill. 
 If the results do not please us, we have only our- 
 selves to blame. His life all along had been in- 
 extricably mixed up in the folly and selfishness o£ 
 others. Those ideals which he had been so sure 
 
 74 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 of realizing might have been pursued to a success- 
 ful culmination had he possessed the independence 
 to think and act for himself. There was the 
 trouble! He had always been willing to be led, 
 he reflected, like a dog on a chain; he had never 
 had the courage of his convictions — had never 
 been able to summon the initiative by which he 
 might have gone his own way, rather than that 
 of others. True, he had asserted himself well 
 enough in his contest with his guardian on the 
 question of his career, but that was to enable him 
 the better to have his fling; even in this he had 
 deceived himself, as well as the other. 
 
 At the medical examination that he underwent, 
 his own bodily condition furnished ample proof 
 of the truth of his statement as to the buffeting 
 he had received in the small boat. He would 
 come out of the difficulty all right so far as the 
 Coroner's jury went; he felt no apprehension on 
 that score, but he realized all the same that a turn- 
 ing-point had been reached; it was as if a voice 
 had said to him, u Thus far and no farther." His 
 house of cards had tumbled about him; he must 
 build anew; he would endeavor to build better, he 
 resolved. 
 
 There was cause for disquietude in another di- 
 rection also, which had had its effect in sending 
 him to the West. He had been living beyond his 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 means, always intending to go into business 
 " some time." The fliers he had taken in Wall 
 Street had generally turned out to be sinkers. 
 Other deals in the way of investments had panned 
 out poorly. It would not do to encroach further 
 on his capital, the only security against the future 
 for such as he. As it was, the income would not 
 suffice for his needs, for his many artificial wants, 
 if he remained in the city. 
 
 But why remain in the city? What did it have 
 to offer him of which he had not already a satiety? 
 It seemed to him as if he had exhausted all the 
 possibilities of sensuous enjoyment. In some ob- 
 scure recess of his mind a voice raised itself, faint 
 at first, but becoming more insistant as the days 
 wore on, asking for work instead of voluptuous 
 ease, for duty to replace the happiness he had so 
 long vainly sought. 
 
 The free life of the far West began to attract 
 him. He had once met some Arizona cattlemen 
 in New York — Rough Riders returning from the 
 Cuban war, and had become well acquainted with 
 two in particular in the few days of their tarrying 
 in the city en route to the West. The people had 
 vied with each other in showing them attentions, 
 and he had fallen into line with the rest. He 
 had been impressed at the time by their bear- 
 ing, their perfect health, their evident content- 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 ment. How well they carried themselves in this 
 novel environment! With his life-long habit of 
 introspection, he had often since drawn compari- 
 sons between his own life and theirs. Plainly, 
 their lives were being lived to much better purpose 
 than was his. He thought of the kind of life that 
 could be lived there — the saneness of it, the health- 
 fulness of it, and decided to go and try it. 
 
 He made no plans beyond the immediate present 
 on arriving in Arizona; he would wait and see 
 what the future had in store for him. The transi- 
 tion going on within himself — might he not hope 
 that it would lead to better things? This man 
 of wrong courses but right instincts had indeed 
 often hoped for this, but his environment hitherto 
 had held him in thrall as to an evil destiny. Now 
 that he had separated himself from it, in this 
 new perspective in which self-deception was no 
 longer possible or to be tolerated, now that he 
 could see his limitations, and know himself as he 
 was — might there not yet be a chance for him to 
 do something with his life? 
 
 A passionate longing to become regenerate, to 
 live in such a way that life would have a meaning 
 for him as it so evidently had for others, took 
 possession of him at times. He had read some- 
 where of a character in a novel in whom, while 
 trying to reconcile bad actions with good inten- 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 tions, an inward drama and argument continually 
 went on. With him there was the inward drama, 
 though not the argument; he could not but acqui- 
 esce in the summary of the mentor ever at his 
 side, pointing out to him wherein he had erred; 
 he made no plea, the censure and the upbraiding 
 seeming to be part of the discipline he had to un- 
 dergo. At least it was life — this awakening that 
 had come to him; and to be thoroughly alive — 
 even if it were to suffer — this was better than the 
 old listlessness. For though the road was rough 
 and toilsome, it might in time be overcome; he 
 •acquiesced in it all, hoping that a way of salvation 
 might yet be adduced thereby. 
 
 In his long rides, when sometimes for the entire 
 day he did not exchange a word even with his 
 servant, his thoughts often dwelt on these things, 
 but without any very great faith in their realiza- 
 tion. He hoped however for higher standards, for 
 a life of simplicity and reality. He at least desired 
 something better, and that seemed some gain. 
 
 Humility grew within him with his acquisition 
 of self-knowledge. How much better the char- 
 acter of these people about him, the one they called 
 the Deacon, for instance, who was one of the 
 first on the ground, and whose fine, open counte- 
 nance had attracted his attention — how much bet- 
 ter than his own. The picture that he saw of him- 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 self, compared with this, brought on the self-scorn 
 anew when he contemplated it. This was his 
 mental attitude while taking his first steps in the 
 difficult path of self-conquest, and by it influx of 
 light came to him. 
 
 The desert is the place for reflection, as is the 
 outer world for action. In these vast distances — 
 these deep silences — in the infinite harmony of 
 Nature — here, if anywhere, may the spirit of man 
 come to its own. 
 
 *- 
 
 79 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 AS time wore on, Branscombe's grievances 
 began to abate. He was too young and 
 too healthy in mind and body to play the part of 
 misanthrope for long, and his project of going 
 well out onto the desert, attractive as it appeared 
 at first, became less so as the time approached for 
 putting it into execution. By degrees he came to 
 interest himself to some extent in those nearest 
 him, and, as he came to know something about 
 them, learning their history from the ranchman 
 at whose house he took his meals, he perceived to 
 his surprise that they appeared content in all the 
 privation in which their lot was cast. How could 
 it be, he asked himself, that there could be even 
 the semblance of happiness among them, under 
 the limitations and privations which were theirs? 
 The camp work, especially the heavier part of it, 
 such as chopping wood and carrying water, was a 
 hardship he could see, to men in their condition, 
 yet it was generally done cheerfully. Although 
 advised by their physicians to take at least six 
 eggs a day, and more if they were able to digest 
 
 80 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 them, most of them, he was told, cut down the 
 number to two or three when the price was high. 
 With eggs at fifteen cents the dozen, they were able 
 to digest a much larger quantity than when the 
 price was thirty-five or forty. Clearly his own 
 troubles, when contrasted by the real difficulties 
 of these people, seemed imaginary, or far away. 
 
 This thing called life — what store they set by it! 
 How they valued it! What a price they were 
 willing to pay for it ! These instances of women 
 (of course young women, the disease doesn't 
 attack people after middle age usually) camping 
 alone on the roadsides, sometimes far from a 
 house — when this fact was first brought home to 
 him, during his rides about the country, he was 
 incredulous, and was not convinced until the state- 
 ment of his Indian boy was confirmed by the ranch- 
 man. 
 
 "But aren't they ever molested?" he asked. 
 11 With so large an alien population, Indians and 
 Mexicans, and living just in tents, what security 
 have they? " 
 
 u I have never heard of one being molested," 
 was the response. " It's the custom of the country 
 to sleep out of doors, away from the house, under 
 the stars for about nine months in the year. There 
 isn't a ranch-house in the country that is used 
 for sleeping in by any of the family in summer. 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 People sleep soundly here, and many never lock 
 their doors. We couldn't do this if we had a bad 
 population, do you think? " 
 
 " No indeed," assented Branscombe. 
 
 " Let me tell you a little incident about a cow- 
 boy that occurred to me," said his wife. " It was 
 in the early days — as much as fifteen years ago. 
 In those days the cowboys still enjoyed the privi- 
 lege of shooting up the town occasionally. We 
 were living on the edge of town then, and I had 
 been out buying something at a store. As I was 
 crossing the main business street, a cowboy sailed 
 around the corner like the wind, shooting as he 
 came. I was so frightened that I fell into the 
 dust. The first one to come to my help was this 
 cowboy, and, although I was not hurt and walked 
 to my home, he rode alongside to satisfy himself 
 that I would get there all right. When I got to 
 the door, I thanked him, and asked him his name. 
 When he gave it, he took off his hat with a flourish, 
 and then galloped away. That night there was 
 a package left at our door, which I found in the 
 morning. It was a dress pattern the color of the 
 dress I had worn the day before. That dress had 
 been soiled by my fall, and the other must have 
 been left by the cowboy to replace it." 
 
 " I'm well acquainted with a former warden of 
 the penitentiary at Yuma," continued the ranch- 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 man. " He says there are very few in there for 
 anything bad. You wouldn't believe it, but not 
 one in fifty is in for anything like stealing; it's 
 mostly just shooting scrapes. The Arizonian may 
 be a little too ready with his gun at times, but 
 there's no harm in him." 
 
 How admirably the invalids about him adapted 
 themselves to the changed conditions under which 
 they now had to live! What could they find to 
 laugh about ? he sometimes thought. Why should 
 Fillmore whistle? What did any of them have 
 to whistle about? Their careers cut short, sick, 
 often scant of money, being compelled to econo- 
 mize in ways which retarded recovery — surely 
 here was little enough to make merry over. They 
 were now merely spectators, lookers-on at the 
 game of life instead of the active participants 
 they formerly had been, and he could not under- 
 stand how they could take it so easily. 
 
 There were the Latimer brothers, the latest 
 accessions to the Camp. The younger, Percy, had 
 been in the Territory a year, boarding at a ranch 
 where he had been paying ten dollars a week. He 
 had practically no means of his own, and had been 
 maintained by his brother, a few years the senior. 
 The brother now had been attacked by the same 
 disease, and had been compelled to throw up his 
 position and become a health-seeker himself. He 
 
 83 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 had been drawing a liberal salary, and this was to 
 be continued a year, he told the ranchman, by 
 which time he hoped to have his health restored 
 sufficiently to enable him to do some light work. 
 They were from San Francisco, and from a good 
 family, as their appearance denoted. 
 
 And the Lockwoods. In this instance, it was the 
 wife who was the invalid, the husband with a de- 
 votion that Branscombe could not have conceived 
 of in himself having resigned his position as mill 
 superintendent with three thousand hands under 
 him — a position he had been working up to for 
 fifteen years — in order to accompany his wife to 
 the desert country. Here he ministered to her 
 with a faithfulness that was the subject of remark 
 throughout the Camp, content if he could but ease 
 the situation for her. 
 
 Then there was Alford, whose chances for re- 
 covery were very slim. It was plain to even a 
 casual observer, that he was failing. He had to 
 walk with a cane now, and his coughing spells 
 were growing more frequent, yet he, even, seemed 
 cheerful between the paroxysms. In the silence 
 of the night a groan might escape him after one 
 of the coughing spells — Branscombe often read 
 until midnight, especially after an all-day's ride, 
 and Alford's tent was near his — but when any one 
 was by he always put a good face on the matter, 
 
 84 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 even joking over the fact, Branscombe had over- 
 heard it, that his high temperature enabled him 
 to get along with but one pair of blankets. " And 
 that's where I have the bulge on you fellows," he 
 had said. 
 
 And Wells and Farrell, sometimes alluded to 
 as the " Wells-Fargo outfit." True, they were 
 not in financial straits as were most of the others. 
 There was a Japanese cook in charge of the Wells- 
 Farrell menage, and there was probably money 
 enough to enable them to live in comfort until 
 recovery or death. Wells, so the ranchman told 
 him, had been a mining engineer, " holding down " 
 a fine position in one of the big copper-mines in 
 Arizona. He and Farrell had been classmates in 
 college and chums from the start. A Damon and 
 Pythias friendship had developed between them, 
 and when Farrell was stricken with the disease 
 back East, it seemed obviously the wisest course 
 for him to pursue to come to Arizona, and join his 
 friend, also in delicate health, who had gone there 
 on this account. 
 
 The Williams too, who had shown a friendly 
 side to him, now that he came to think of it. They 
 had been married eight years, and had a child, a 
 little girl of five, who had been left behind with 
 its grandparents. During health, Mr. Williams's 
 salary had but just sufficed for their needs, and 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 now it had stopped. Fortunately he had a sick 
 benefit fund from a fraternal organization, and 
 this was supplemented by some money which had 
 come to Mrs. Williams from a grandparent. 
 They had sufficient means for the present, and 
 when Mr. Williams's health should be sufficiently 
 restored, they intended buying a small place near 
 Pasadena where they might raise poultry and 
 small fruits; but it was plain that their present 
 outlook was something wholly different than what 
 it had formerly been. 
 
 And how they all tried to celebrate the Christ- 
 mas holidays ! What faith in their own resources 
 it betokened! Sitting in his tent on Christmas 
 eve, cutting the pages of a magazine, he heard 
 the tinkle of a guitar proceeding from one of the 
 larger tents, and rightly concluded that those who 
 were well enough, were gathered there, making 
 an effort, at least a bid, for some of the cheer that 
 went with the good old holiday. 
 
 The intermittent tinkling of the guitar set him 
 to musing, causing him to drop his magazine. 
 
 The persistency of the Christmas spirit ! How 
 it seemed to permeate each and all as the season 
 came round again. He recalled the Christmas 
 holidays of his youth and early manhood — how 
 he always came home from boarding-school or col- 
 lege to celebrate them with his mother, how he 
 
 86 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 disturbed the serenity and quiet of the house with 
 his autocratic ways, how every one deferred to 
 him, making him the autocrat he came to be. 
 What times those were, when every one was well 
 disposed toward him, and no upbraiding mentor 
 at his elbow. 
 
 " How was it," he asked himself, " that the 
 pathos of such a situation as that going on in the 
 Williams' tent, in their pitiful attempts at making 
 merry, did not more appeal to him? " His brain 
 apprehended it well enough, but it seemed at times 
 as if his sensibilities had become atrophied, that 
 he was become incapable of pity or sympathy. In 
 earlier years he would have felt these things 
 acutely, and that he should be so insensible to 
 them now, struck him suddenly as of a curious 
 lack in his mental equipment. He had grown 
 coarser with the years. As a boy, when he 
 saw anything painful it was with an instantane- 
 ous response of sympathy. There was a lame girl 
 who walked with a crutch, who used to come into 
 his father's office occasionally, whom he never saw 
 in those years without a lump coming in his throat. 
 He had let these finer feelings die down in him in 
 the life of selfish gratification he had been leading. 
 
 44 Might not this explain," he asked himself, 
 44 his lessened capacity for enjoyment ? " Not alone 
 enjoyment, might it not lie at the bottom of his 
 
 87 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 entire failure in life — his failure to achieve any- 
 thing in his chosen profession of art, as well as 
 in every other relation ? 
 
 " All art," said the Master once, who, on invi- 
 tation of a score of American art students, among 
 whom Branscombe was numbered, had consented 
 to come to their studio once a week to criticise 
 their work — " all art is largely a question of — 
 shall I say, perceptibilite — sensibilite? And this 
 is as essential in appreciating it as in creating it. 
 Art, ever beckoning us on, has evidently been 
 given us to enable us to develop the higher part 
 of our nature. To create, you have to be more 
 alive than the average man. Your American poet 
 with the odd name, Longman — ah yes! Long- 
 fellow — voiced this idea beautifully in that little 
 classic which he called the Psalm of Life." 
 
 And with it all he felt himself to be as cold and 
 hard as an icicle. There was a Christmas story 
 by a New England authoress he had been reading 
 in his magazine that Christmas eve, all about 
 simple village folk who had discovered another 
 in a most unfortunate position. The gist of the 
 story was to the effect that, in the humanizing 
 touch of their sympathy, in their ready response 
 to the mute appeal of a tortured soul, they had 
 found their own blessedness, forgetting their 
 troubles and disappointments therein. 
 
 88 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Guitar and voices were finally resolved into a 
 wobbly, unsteady rendering of the good old Ger- 
 man Christmas hymn, 
 
 Silent Night, 
 Hallowed Night. 
 
 His thoughts reverted to a Christmas spent in 
 the Black Forest the first year he went abroad, 
 and his pulses leaped as he recalled the a capella 
 rendering of the fine old hymn at the midnight 
 service in the church. 
 
 Stille Nacht, 
 Heil'ge Nacht. 
 
 The swing and the rhythmic motion they had 
 given to the next but last line — 
 
 Wo der Erloser erschien! 
 
 The influence of the silent holy night was steal- 
 ing in on him, taking him at unawares. 
 
 Wo der Erloser erschien! 
 
 It was a dry land somewhat like Arizona, a 
 pastoral land — he had visited it on one of the 
 Mediterranean tours — the stars shining brightly 
 as here. 
 
 8 9 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 How the atmosphere seemed surcharged with 
 the kindly Christmas spirit one toward the other 
 among that simple Black Forest village folk ! He 
 recalled walking back, in the moonlight, through 
 the crisp snow, with the family of the good 
 burgher with whom he was stopping; the Mutter- 
 chen and the others ahead, Annchen — those sweet 
 German diminutives! the tenderness they convey! 
 tall, pretty, fair-haired, roguish Annchen at his 
 side, and his eyes glistened as he remembered how 
 she had kissed him in the doorway, taking him at 
 unawares with her Weihnachtskuss, and then had 
 scampered away with a merry laugh, leaving him 
 to gaze stupidly after for a moment, until his 
 brain took in the situation, upon which he had 
 overtaken her, repaying the kiss with interest. 
 
 And the Christmas tree, that had been prepared 
 during the afternoon by Annchen and the maid 
 with great secrecy behind locked doors, and which 
 was lit up by the Vaterchen himself, who remained 
 home from the service for the purpose so that the 
 distribution might take place as soon as they en- 
 tered the house. Was there ever such another 
 Christmas tree, with its myriad candles, its gilded 
 walnuts, its red apples and candy animals! And 
 the delight of the children over the little gifts they 
 had received — would he ever forget it ! or his own 
 either, which was scarcely less though less noisily 
 
 90 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 expressed, on receiving the wonderful stein from 
 Annchen's fairy hands. 
 
 There was a Schnitzler Schule there, with a 
 Herr Professor in charge, who was already be- 
 coming known, and who had since become famous, 
 but had stayed on, preferring the quiet life of 
 work and meditation to anything that the outside 
 world had to offer. He remembered being told 
 by him how his mother had importuned him to 
 leave there and go to Dresden, where was a wider 
 field, and where he could take a more prominent 
 place in the world — and how, in reply, he had 
 quoted from Goethe in support of his position, 
 Es bildet sich ein talent in die stille. 
 
 The Herr Professor had seemed to take a fancy 
 to him, and had invited him to remain for a year 
 and pursue his studies under his direction, offering 
 to give him every facility. The friendship of 
 such a man, — what might it not have been worth in 
 the development of his character and in the bring- 
 ing out and cultivation of his talent! For there 
 must have been talent, he reflected, to lead such 
 a man like the Herr Professor to encourage him 
 to take up the subject under his own supervision. 
 Men of genius always like to aid in the develop- 
 ment of talent in others, often giving their services 
 gratuitously to further the cause, but they make 
 short work of the dullards, as was evidenced by 
 
 9i 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 a little incident which had occurred in his class 
 where the Master had advised a forward and 
 overconfident student to go back to " America " 
 and open a grocery store, telling him that art was 
 not for him. 
 
 How delightfully the world had opened out 
 toward him in those days, where all showed him 
 a friendly side, where as yet there was no mentor 
 at his elbow continually charging him with his 
 derelictions, where as yet there were no derelic- 
 tions to speak of. 
 
 And Annchen; tall, fair-haired, roguish Ann- 
 chen — the charm that invests the pure woman like 
 an aureole, that pervades her like the subtle 
 fragrance of a rose — is there anything in God's 
 universe, he thought, equal to this ? It had seemed 
 to him at times as if she too had shown some 
 preference for him in spite of her roguishness and 
 tantalizing manner. And to turn away from an 
 idyllic life like this when he might have remained 
 and studied his art with Annchen ever at his side — 
 to turn his back on it when he might have remained 
 and become part of it — to leave this idyllic life 
 and go back to the Latin Quarter and become en- 
 tangled in its drinking-bouts, its sham c'uels, its 
 grisettes and all the rest of it ! 
 
 The tinkle of the guitar continued, interrupted 
 at times by the low murmur of voices. Later, one 
 
 92 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 of the boys sang a funny song. Then he sang a 
 verse from a sentimental song, rendered with a 
 Hibernian accent. 
 
 On the Day itself, the Camp had a dinner in 
 common to which indeed he had been asked by 
 Mrs. Williams, who had taken the lead in the 
 matter. When he declined, on the plea that he 
 intended being absent from Camp all the day, she 
 had smilingly told him that she would lay a plate 
 for him anyway, and hoped he might get back in 
 time to participate. Had he known of the ache 
 in her heart— of the mother-love — of the heart- 
 hunger for the child left behind, he might have 
 marveled again at the power of repression here 
 exhibited. He returned an hour or so before sun- 
 down and saw the long improvised table on saw- 
 horses placed outside the large tent, decorated 
 with sprays of greasewood and a few belated wild 
 flowers, and was tendered a glass of wine in pass- 
 ing. And though some of the little party were 
 destined never to see the holiday come round 
 again, no considerations of the kind seemed to 
 have interfered with their enjoyment of the day. 
 To most of them it was their first Christmas under 
 the new conditions of illness and privation, and 
 that they could put so good a face on the matter 
 was a marvel indeed. 
 
 He commended the bravery of it though. 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 These men were an object-lesson to him and a 
 reproach. He might learn from them. With 
 everything in his favor he had made a mess 
 of his life, while they, with everything against 
 them, managed still to extract some enjoyment 
 out of it. 
 
 Although in these speculations he was as yet 
 mainly analytical, the humanitarian side of the 
 question began gradually to appeal to him. In 
 the old life he had not been in the habit of think- 
 ing much about others — their troubles and sor- 
 rows had concerned him but little. True to the 
 old traditions he had thought only of himself. 
 To win out in the game of life you had to look 
 out for yourself: the stragglers were nothing to 
 you. No doubt they deserved their fate when they 
 were unable to keep up with the procession. A 
 nice time you would have of it if you hampered 
 yourself with every one who needed your help. 
 This had been the gist of his philosophy, and of 
 those by whom his life had been governed. Now, 
 however, that he was passing through the fire him- 
 self, he gradually became aware of the kinship of 
 suffering, recognizing it instinctively in others, and 
 finding later, strangely enough, that when he 
 shared another's burden, his own was lightened 
 thereby. 
 
 One day, while going for water, his Indian boy 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 being gone for the day, he overtook the Deacon, 
 who was bent on the same errand, but was resting 
 under a mesquite tree. Silently, it must be con- 
 fessed rather shamefacedly, feeling very much 
 like a good boy out of a Sunday-school book, he 
 took up the empty bucket and brought it, filled, 
 to the young man's tent. From that time the Dea- 
 con carried no more water. The two empty 
 buckets that each night stood on the bench outside 
 his tent were always, as by a miracle, full when he 
 rose in the morning. Being a person of discern- 
 ment he said nothing about this to Branscombe, 
 or to any of the others in the Camp. It relieved 
 him of a great difficulty, however, as he had been 
 specially enjoined by his physician against lifting 
 or carrying, the possibility of a hemorrhage being 
 pointed out to him should he do this. 
 
 To Branscombe the two holidays just passed — 
 Thanksgiving and Christmas — had been judgment 
 days in which conscience and the remnant of virtue 
 still existing within him had questioned and lashed 
 him anew. The inward drama would have to 
 continue — the mentor at his elbow remain, await- 
 ing a definite outcome. And the denouement, 
 when the drama came to its end? 
 
 For he looked forward to an end to the inward 
 conflict. Surely this state of things could not al- 
 ways go on thus. A time must come, provided he 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 did his part, when at least there would be peace, 
 when if not happiness, there might be content- 
 ment. 
 
 Soon after Branscombe's acquaintance with the 
 Deacon began, he proposed to the latter that he 
 move his tent nearer, and that they mess together. 
 The advantages of having a companion in camp 
 life were so obvious to a man of the Deacon's 
 condition and temperament that he grasped at the 
 opportunity, although it was done in opposition to 
 the advice of the others in the Camp. 
 
 It did not take Branscombe long to discover his 
 partner's worth and to respond to it. He came to 
 enjoy his camping experiences with the Deacon. 
 They did their own work for the most part, the 
 cooking in especial. In these matters the Deacon 
 was the instructor, his partner being a willing, if 
 at first not very capable, neophyte. Nothing that 
 he had ever eaten at Sherry's tasted half so good, 
 it seemed to Branscombe, as the cup of coffee made 
 by his own hands, after his cold bath in the morn- 
 ing. Whenever he made a dish that turned out 
 well — the coffee is an instance and there were sev- 
 eral other things in which he soon became adept 
 — it seemed a kind of triumph to him, this man 
 who had so long lived an idle, useless life. 
 
 The vigorous health that reasserted itself in 
 the new life needed an outlet which horseback 
 
 9 6 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 riding was not sufficient to supply, and he supple- 
 mented it by wood-chopping, and other homely 
 but necessary camp work. He was apt in learn- 
 ing, and soon took over most of the cooking, so 
 that very little remained for the Deacon to do. 
 
 He enjoyed the gradually growing friendship 
 with his partner which the exigencies of camp 
 life brought about. The Deacon's character, he 
 told himself, was pure gold. Branscombe's inti- 
 mates heretofore had not been of this sort; had 
 been indeed of a much baser metal; more like 
 brass not to put too fine a point upon it, and he 
 appreciated him all the more for the comparison. 
 
 He sometimes amused himself with speculating 
 as to what his former friends would say, could 
 they see him at his present occupation. How 
 would Bainbridge and Winslow regard him, could 
 they see him chopping the tough mesquite wood? 
 He recalled how they had talked during the pre- 
 vious summer about their contemplated trip to 
 Canada when winter came, for moose. They 
 called it camping, although each probably took 
 his man along, and they would have guides also. 
 He knew they would talk when they got back, as 
 long as any one would listen, of their camping 
 experiences; as if camping amounted to anything 
 unless you fried the bacon and eggs yourself and 
 made the coffee. Mile. Fifine — Miss Pinkie — but 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 why go into these details? perhaps the less said 
 about them the better. 
 
 The alternations of work and sleep — the satis- 
 faction of it all! He welcomed the prospect of 
 doing things as soon as he arose in the morning, 
 and when the day was over, the work had tired 
 him enough to make him enjoy the prospect of 
 sleep. He felt that he could never sufficiently ap- 
 preciate the beneficent effects of each on mind and 
 body. The desert can heal lesions other than 
 those of the lungs. 
 
 It was a fine intuition, he thought, that had 
 brought him to the Southwest, where seemed to 
 be the atmosphere and environment suited to his 
 needs. He soon perceived, that when once he had 
 adapted himself to its conditions and had assim- 
 ilated them, when once the lesson came to be 
 mastered — that lesson which had been so long in 
 learning — the new life of the Southwest would be 
 satisfying in a sense and to a degree that he had 
 never experienced before. 
 
 9 8 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE little colony had its tragedies, its heart 
 sorrows — its measure of agony and re- 
 morse, as well as its fluctuations of hope and joy; 
 it had its instances of blind wilfulness and selfish 
 egotism, as well as of heroic self-abnegation. The 
 limitations and shortcomings of this human nature 
 of ours were as much in evidence here as out in 
 the wide world. 
 
 In the Latimer tents there were occasional dif- 
 ferences, — perhaps the brothers had grown apart 
 in the year in which they had been separated, — 
 or it may be that their illness, making them self- 
 centered, had. paved the way for divergences of 
 opinion. Most likely, it was the dry, electrical 
 atmosphere which, making them nervous, had the 
 effect of rendering Percival irritable and Carlyle 
 less forbearing. There was nothing violent, — not 
 what could be called quarreling, — but the differ- 
 ences were pronounced enough to keep the brothers 
 apart at times. 
 
 A frequent cause of dissension arose from the 
 fact that Carlyle, the elder of the two, having 
 
 99 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 studied up the disease and the rationale of the 
 treatment, desired the other to conform to his 
 conception of the case. The younger had his own 
 opinions on this, as on most subjects, and was gen- 
 erally ready to argue out any topic on the slightest 
 provocation, from a question in football to a rise 
 of a degree or two in his temperature. From 
 heated argument, it was often but a short step to 
 recrimination, Carlyle always blaming himself bit- 
 terly afterward, and always resolving to be more 
 circumspect and patient in the future. 
 
 After all, Percival was only a boy yet, and had 
 always been indulged, reflected this sage of twenty- 
 six. And too, was not he partly responsible for 
 this argumentative disposition which the other ex- 
 hibited? For had he not encouraged it already 
 in the lad's childhood? It had seemed so preco- 
 cious to hear the boy take the opposite side against 
 his father, that he had often in those times started 
 the conversational ball a-rolling with no other 
 object than to involve the two in one of these 
 word contests. 
 
 Perhaps the father enjoyed it too. The boys 
 never remembered their mother, and the father 
 never mentioned her. He was almost a recluse, 
 caring only for his books and his boys, as he used 
 to tell them. He had been something of an invalid 
 for years before his death, and remained at home 
 ioo 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 most of the time. As he wanted to have them 
 near him as much as possible, he taught them until 
 they were well-grown lads and his influence over 
 them remained paramount. 
 
 Carlyle never was the same after his father's 
 death, which had occurred some years before. 
 Father and sons lived after a happy-go-lucky fash- 
 ion on a small annuity which the father had re- 
 ceived from his father's estate. Carlyle's paternal 
 grandfather had been a Forty-niner, who had 
 achieved quite a fortune and had then settled down 
 in San Francisco. There were but two children, 
 both boys, Carlyle's father being the younger. He 
 must have displeased his father in some way, as 
 the bulk of the fortune went to the elder son, only 
 the small annuity going to the younger. 
 
 The Latimer menage would have been open to 
 criticism from the standpoint of a good house- 
 keeper. There was one maid who had been there 
 from time immemorial so far as the boys were con- 
 cerned, who had her own way about everything, 
 whose fiat on any matter was never even ques- 
 tioned. The carpets were shabby and sometimes 
 threadbare; the windows were not washed as often 
 as good housekeeping warranted; the table linen, 
 originally of fine quality, now worn thin, was at 
 times joined together in the middle ; but there was 
 a wealth of affection from father to sons, unex- 
 
 IOI 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 pressed, inexpressible, which made up for all other 
 deficiencies. This the boys accepted as a matter 
 of course, never rightly prizing it until it had been 
 taken from them, as is often the case with our best 
 possessions. 
 
 When Carlyle was twenty, a position was ob- 
 tained for him in the office of one of the trans- 
 continental railway lines, and where he had re- 
 mained ever since. On the death of his father, 
 which had occurred when he was twenty-three and 
 Percival eighteen, a position was secured for the 
 latter in a bank, and Carlyle endeavored to take 
 the father's place toward his younger brother. 
 
 That young gentleman, on attaining the bank 
 position and the munificent salary of forty dollars 
 per month which went with it, soon developed 
 social aspirations as became a Native Son of the 
 Golden West with so distinguished a grandfather 
 back of him (not to mention the Archbishop), 
 and Carlyle soon found that his self-constituted 
 relation toward Percival — a relation very much 
 like that of the hen that has hatched out ducklings 
 — was no sinecure. While not extravagant, Per- 
 cival soon developed a fondness for dress-suits in 
 the evening, enjoyed dancing extremely, always 
 managing to have the prettiest girls as partners, 
 taking these same pretty girls to the theatre and 
 out driving as occasion offered, and in general, 
 102 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 disporting himself as the grandson of a successful 
 Forty-niner, with first-rate social connections might 
 be expected to do in a city such as San Francisco 
 was in its old-time splendor. 
 
 Thus Percy, for about a year and a half. Then 
 his mode of life began to tell on him. The 
 close confinement in the bank, the frequent dances 
 with the attendant want of sleep — these together 
 with an inherited tendency toward tuberculosis 
 (the father had died of the disease) were doing 
 their work. The sequel came one day without any 
 warning, in the shape of a hemorrhage, while on 
 his way to the bank. It occurred on a crowded 
 thoroughfare, and he was immediately taken into 
 a drug store where restoratives were applied, after 
 which he was sent to a hospital and Carlyle noti- 
 fied. 
 
 Percy's faults were all on the surface. The 
 father was a man of fine character, and the rela- 
 tion between him and his sons was too intimate 
 and long continued for either of the boys to go 
 very far wrong. But out of a salary of five hun- 
 dred you cannot spend a thousand a year and 
 have an easy time of it. This was the problem 
 that young Latimer was trying to solve, and it 
 proved to be too complicated a one for his arith- 
 metic. After he got to work and as a direct result 
 of it, the boys had to part with their home. The 
 103 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 house had already been mortgaged in their 
 father's lifetime, but real estate was increasing in 
 value and the father always felt that the equity 
 in the home would be a nice little nest-egg for 
 them until they could get on their feet. 
 
 But Percival's debts were piling up, and when 
 his illness came on — his attack had been noticed 
 in all the papers — the creditors became pressing. 
 Carlyle guarded the honor of the family jealously, 
 a sentiment which had been carefully instilled into 
 him by his father, who often told him that he had 
 no fear that it would be knowingly jeopardized 
 by either of them. These debts must be paid at 
 once, before Percy's superiors at the bank should 
 learn of them and institute inquiry. Percy's hon- 
 esty must not be questioned. The only way out 
 of the difficulty that he could see was to put a 
 second mortgage on the house, rent it, the income 
 of which would be required to pay interest charges 
 and taxes, sell or store the books and furniture and 
 go boarding. 
 
 The proceeds from the mortgage paid these 
 debts, and left a few hundreds over for emergen- 
 cies, but the boys were adrift. It did not matter 
 so much for the younger, this giving up the old 
 home, since, as soon as he would be able to travel, 
 he was to leave for Arizona; but to Carlyle it was 
 like parting soul and body — giving up this home, 
 104 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 every nook and corner of which was endeared to 
 him by associations with his father. Unlike Per- 
 cival, he was always best satisfied at home, spend- 
 ing most of his evenings in the musty old library, 
 a course, however, which was as conducive to the 
 development of the disease as was Percival's. 
 
 When Carlyle found that he also was attacked 
 by it, the discovery having been made some months 
 subsequent to Percival's departure for Arizona, he 
 met the situation in a business-like manner. There 
 must be no half-way measures in this, he reflected. 
 He had Percy to look after now, as well as him- 
 self, and if his health went, what would Percy do? 
 He could take no chances. He must get well at 
 all hazards on the lad's account. 
 
 He stated his case frankly to his chief at the 
 outset of the disease, who, interested in his recov- 
 ery, having slated him for advancement, gave him 
 a three months' leave of absence with salary, 
 assuring him in addition that, when he returned, 
 he would make his work lighter for another six 
 months. He also sought good medical advice, 
 fortifying this by procuring the best books on the 
 subject of his disease, mastering their contents, 
 not, however, until he had procured a medical 
 dictionary. When he learned that tuberculosis is 
 largely a disease of malnutrition, and that super- 
 alimentation is one of the forces by which it can 
 105 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 be successfully combated, he took up the study of 
 dietetics. He also moved to Berkeley, slept out of 
 doors, and made a point of being out in the air 
 as much as possible. 
 
 His first impulse had been to go to Arizona 
 where his brother was, but this the physician com- 
 bated, telling him that it was not worth while 
 taking the long railway journey for so short a stay 
 — that by living rightly, he would do better to 
 remain where he was. 
 
 In a few months he had the satisfaction of 
 being told that the disease was arrested, but he 
 continued his mode of life as if the case were still 
 doubtful. 
 
 The result of his medical studies had been faith- 
 fully transmitted to Percy in weekly letters, to 
 which the other responded regularly. When sum- 
 mer came, and it was necessary to leave Arizona, 
 Carlyle procured a pass for him, enabling him to 
 spend the heated term in the foothills of the Kings 
 River country in California, where he joined him 
 on a month's vacation. 
 
 A plan for spending the coming winter in Ari- 
 zona with Percy, which Carlyle had been consider- 
 ing, was decided on, on this trip. Percy had not 
 made the progress toward recovery which Carlyle 
 had expected. He needed looking after he re- 
 flected. The world had not been very bright for 
 106 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Carlyle since his father's death. He must not 
 lose Percy too; there'd be nothing then worth 
 living for. They needed each other, and would 
 be supplementary one to the other. He must look 
 after his own health so as to be able to look after 
 Percy. A winter in Arizona together would prob- 
 ably improve the health of each, so that they might 
 live in Southern California thereafter. In another 
 year, his attorney assured him, their house would 
 sell for a few thousands above the encumbrances, 
 and then they would buy a ranch on which both 
 might live in comfort. 
 
 Carlyle's solicitude about his brother's health — 
 though appreciated by the younger — became at 
 times irksome to him, especially when it involved 
 any curtailment of his freedom of action. Per- 
 cival's temperature and pulse-rate were taken twice 
 daily by the elder brother, and when any varia- 
 tion from the normal appeared, the younger knew 
 what to expect. If it were no more than three- 
 fifths of a degree above, he might sit about but 
 not take any exercise. If a full degree, he was so 
 earnestly importuned to go to bed for a few hours 
 that the young fellow, impatient of restraint, 
 sometimes answered back sharply instead of com- 
 plying. 
 
 " What do you suppose the Almighty put brains 
 into my head for unless to be used? Don't you 
 107 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 think I know something too? I know how I feel 
 better than you do." 
 
 Always after one of their little rencontres — 
 which occurred periodically — each, taking on him- 
 self the fault, would endeavor to make expiation 
 by doing something which he knew the other 
 would like, Percy being usually the more demon- 
 strative of the two. Often his contrition led him, 
 unthinkingly, to take on more of the camp work 
 than had been portioned out to him, and Carlyle, 
 though aware that this would have the effect of 
 raising his temperature, would at such times not 
 have the heart to disapprove, not wishing to hurt 
 him or have it appear that any displeasure re- 
 mained. 
 
 Being handy with tools he would put up a shelf, 
 or add some other convenience to the menage so 
 as to make the work easier for Carlyle, who did 
 most of it. Or he would make a store of kindlings, 
 enough to last a week, cutting the sagebrush for 
 the purpose, which cost nothing and burned read- 
 ily. Carlyle had indeed demurred to this once, 
 on the ground that it was full of dust, which was 
 disseminated and breathed when cutting it with 
 a hatchet, but Percival met this objection the 
 next time by cutting the stalks off close to the 
 ground with a saw. 
 
 But his compunction usually took the form of 
 io3 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 extra precautions as regarded his health, since this 
 was a matter in which Carlyle was most deeply 
 concerned. Lying down for a few hours in the 
 afternoon was a form of punishment which the 
 young penitent often voluntarily underwent. This 
 really was a penance for him; how much of one, 
 Carlyle himself could not measure. The after- 
 noon was the time when girls sometimes came to 
 the Camp, visiting one or the other there, and he 
 had been in the vicinity long enough to have made 
 many acquaintances among them. And there were 
 some very pretty girls in town too; not the equal 
 of those in San Francisco — that could hardly be 
 expected; nothing any more was like what it had 
 been in those halcyon days of health, not even the 
 girls, — but all in all there were some very attrac- 
 tive ones as things went now, and they made the 
 one bright feature in his life. 
 
 Almost any afternoon, some one or other of 
 these delectable acquaintances might drive in on 
 their way somewhere else, and then it would be 
 very agreeable to be around. Of course, they 
 never set out for the sole purpose of visiting the 
 Camp. They took it in on their way, and some- 
 times they took in the young fellow too, in making 
 the statement. At times they remained so long 
 looking at the mesquite trees, or playing with the 
 bob-cat which Percival had received from a hunter 
 109 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 when but a few days old, that in leaving they took 
 the direction from whence they came; but that 
 may have been due to absent-mindedness. 
 
 Always when the noon meal was over he donned 
 his best gray flannel shirt and greenest tie in antici- 
 pation of visitors, doing the honors of the Camp, 
 when they came, with an air of proprietorship 
 that well became him. 
 
 Percival was not doing so well lately; he was 
 running some temperature, and Carlyle was deeply 
 concerned about it. His digestive powers too, 
 were not in good condition. Carlyle was convinced 
 that much of his trouble was due to the excessive 
 use of coffee, of which both were very fond. The 
 fact that Percival was hemorrhagic made it spe- 
 cially important that his bodily health be main- 
 tained at its highest standard, so as to prevent a 
 recurrence of a hemorrhage, or in the event of 
 one, to enable him the better to stand the strain. 
 It seemed certain that coffee was at the bottom of 
 his digestive troubles and should be discontinued. 
 
 But how to accomplish it? He might make the 
 statement that it was injurious, and stop making 
 it any more, but it was by no means certain that 
 Master Percy would let it end there. It would 
 be more than likely that he would make it himself 
 in that event, and make it stronger, and the last 
 state would be worse than the first. It was a case 
 no 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 that called for diplomacy; he must go slow in the 
 matter. Precipitate action might spoil all, thought 
 Carlyle sagely. 
 
 " The way we drink coffee," said he one morn- 
 ing at breakfast, beginning his campaign by reach- 
 ing for his third cup, " is an inordinate and sinful 
 affection. We ought to cut it out." 
 
 " Once you get the bugs into you, you're just 
 called on to give up everything you like," re- 
 sponded Percival. " But I'd hate to give up my 
 coffee. Remember how papa used to like it when 
 we were on the Yosemite trips? He used to say 
 we made better coffee than Marie." 
 
 This was not a very good beginning, but Carlyle 
 bided his time. 
 
 " I think it makes us nervous. I'm not sleeping 
 so well of late, and it's due to the coffee, I'm sure. 
 Making it ourselves, we drink more of it than if 
 we had to ask for it," continued Carlyle. 
 
 " I don't think it's the coffee," replied Percival, 
 taking the other side from force of habit. " Why 
 doesn't it affect me? I sleep like a top, except 
 when I have to cough." 
 
 " I wish I could say as much," asseverated Car- 
 lyle. " I toss around in bed sometimes for a long 
 while before sleep comes to me." 
 
 " It may be that the dry climate makes one 
 
 in 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 " I have heard that theory advanced," continued 
 Carlyle, " and it may be so; but in that case, it's 
 all the more necessary to avoid anything that will 
 aggravate it. I'm sure it's the coffee that's doing 
 it. How annoyed you were this morning over the 
 loss of that collar button," he wound up. 
 
 14 Collar buttons are at the bottom of most of 
 my annoyances," replied Percival whimsically. 
 44 To have only just the number you need, and 
 then for the best one to roll through a crack in 
 the floor, as happened me this morning when I 
 was putting on my shirt, is enough to make any 
 one mad. I don't know how it is, I'm always in 
 trouble about collar buttons. Buy a quart of 'em 
 the next time you go to town, and then perhaps 
 I'll have one once in a while." 
 
 The talk then drifted to other subjects, until 
 brought back again to the main issue by Carlyle. 
 
 44 Father used to think that coffee made him 
 nervous," said he. 
 
 44 Yes, but he didn't think it so strongly as to 
 lead him to give it up. He kept right on drinking 
 it all the same." 
 
 44 I'm almost sure that it makes me wakeful at 
 times," asserted Carlyle. 4I There's nothing I 
 value so much as good, sound sleep. I'd willingly 
 give up the coffee to be able to sleep again as I 
 used to." 
 
 112 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 " It's not the coffee," replied Percival with the 
 superior wisdom of twenty-one. " You allow 
 yourself to think too much on these things. You 
 keep yourself awake studying about them." 
 
 11 I believe I'll try cereal coffee for a while any- 
 way," persisted Carlyle. " I'm told it's almost as 
 good as the other, and I'll soon get used to it." 
 
 Percival eyed him suspiciously. " Do you mean 
 that you're trying to make me give it up ? Is that 
 what you're driving at? Well, you just won't do 
 it; I'll tell you that straight. Make it raw eggs 
 now, and I'll follow you gladly. Why do you 
 always try to make me do what I don't want to? " 
 
 " I wasn't thinking of you at all," replied Car- 
 lyle mendaciously, " at least not in any special way. 
 But it seems rather effeminate to be so fond of 
 coffee, and I'm going to cut it out myself. I think 
 I'll like the cereal when I get used to it." 
 
 " You can do as you like. I'm going to have 
 my cup of coffee for breakfast the same as I al- 
 ways have. I'm not going to be cut off from every- 
 thing. If you want to drink that kind of stuff you 
 can, but that's no reason why I should. And I 
 ain't going to take no six raw eggs a day any more 
 either. These doctor fellows don't know every- 
 thing," continued Percival, kicking out of the 
 traces entirely. 
 
 Carlyle, contrary to Percival's expectation, made 
 113 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 no response to this, and the subject was dropped; 
 but when he returned from town that afternoon he 
 brought a package of the cereal coffee and a new 
 coffee-pot, making himself a portion on the follow- 
 ing morning. For his brother he made the regular 
 kind in the French coffee-pot as usual. Carlyle 
 made the breakfasts, urging Percival to lie abed 
 until the meal was nearly ready. On this par- 
 ticular morning Percival partook of his coffee 
 without comment, and both kinds were made again 
 on the following morning. Then Percival, seeing 
 that no opposition was forthcoming, relented suffi- 
 ciently to ask for a cup of the despised cereal, add- 
 ing that he'd like to try the darned stuff, he'd seen 
 it advertised so much. On the following day, both 
 kinds were made again as usual, upon which he 
 said, half petulantly, as if to conceal his embar- 
 rassment at capitulating so readily, " Why make 
 two kinds every day? One's as good as the other. 
 If you prefer the cereal, I'd just as lief drink that 
 as the other. I believe it's coffee just the same as 
 the other. Anyway, it's just about as good," and 
 cereal coffee carried the day. 
 
 But their differences did not always turn out so 
 happily as in the case of the coffee episode. One 
 morning, while at breakfast, there had been some 
 words over a comparatively trifling matter, upon 
 which Carlyle rose from the table without finish- 
 114 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 ing his meal, and left the tent. Percival, imme- 
 diately conscience-smitten, started up to call him 
 back, but that curious reticence that is so often 
 observed between brothers restrained him. He 
 was greatly distressed; he knew himself to be in 
 the wrong. In stirring up Carl like this, he felt 
 like a person who had committed a crime; no 
 atonement that he could make, it seemed to him, 
 would be adequate. Carlyle would not reproach 
 him — it would be easier to bear if he would; then 
 he might justify himself. " Why do I try him 
 so?" he asked himself with bitter compunction; 
 11 Carlyle is usually so patient with me. I've often 
 talked in like manner during the past few weeks, 
 and nothing has resulted; he must be getting tired 
 of it now. I am always doing such things; and 
 Carlyle has lost his health working for me, to give 
 me a chance for recovery. I'll be more careful in 
 the future; it shall not happen again." 
 
 Filled with regret he looked about to see what 
 he could do in requital. He would do up the 
 dishes, and have the tent in ship-shape against 
 Carl's return. And every afternoon this week he 
 would lie abed until five, until it was time to go 
 and get the milk. And he would stop smoking. 
 He knew that nothing he could do would be so 
 acceptable to Carl, or show his sincerity so much 
 as this. In furtherance of his good resolution, he 
 
 "5 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 took down his pipe — a Christmas present from 
 one of his confreres in the bank — from the joist 
 where it hung over the photo of one of the pretty 
 San Francisco girls — and put it in the stove. 
 Gathering up his cigarettes and tobacco, he took 
 them to White, saying he had sworn off from 
 smoking and had no more use for the articles. 
 
 On his return he began making preparations for 
 putting the tent in order, but when he essayed to 
 fill the teakettle to have hot water for washing the 
 dishes, he found that the water-bucket was empty. 
 Percival did not carry water; there was danger 
 of hemorrhage (in the Camp vernacular, a hemor- 
 rhage was generally alluded to as a ruby, and the 
 hemorrhagic individual as a Rubaiyat) in his case, 
 so Carlyle always did this, but without thinking of 
 consequences, he grasped the bucket and started 
 on his self-imposed task. 
 
 Carlyle, walking off his displeasure by a cut 
 across the desert where he could come out on a 
 road, was by this time well out of the way of the 
 Camp and did not see his brother going for water. 
 Percival carried but one bucket, but he had to walk 
 slowly, and, as he was anxious to get back and 
 have the work done before Carl's return, he did 
 not stop to rest as he should have done. The un- 
 accustomed exertion, combined with his agitation 
 of the previous half-hour, was too much for him, 
 116 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 and, when about opposite the Deacon's tent, the 
 blood gushed forth in a stream. 
 
 Luckily he was observed by Branscombe (he 
 himself was unable to call or articulate a word), 
 who, with the Deacon's assistance, put him into the 
 latter's bed, and then ran for Fillmore. The usual 
 restoratives were applied, and a hypodermic injec- 
 tion of morphine given, to slow up the heart action. 
 Fillmore always carried the materials for this 
 about with him, against just such an emergency, 
 and soon had him comfortable. While he was 
 strapping the area where the lesion was with adhe- 
 sive plaster, Branscombe, who had hastily thrown 
 the saddle over his pony, was galloping into town 
 for ice, knowing that an ice-bag over the affected 
 region would materially aid in preventing a recur- 
 rence of the trouble. 
 
 Meanwhile, Carlyle had walked himself out of 
 his momentary anger. The cool, pure air of the 
 desert felt good to him, and he prolonged his 
 walk as far as a ranch where almonds were sold, 
 in order to take some back with him. On regain- 
 ing his composure, he began, like Percival, to 
 regret his part in the little bout, and resolved that 
 if similar provocation occurred again, he would 
 keep himself in hand — he would never again be- 
 tray such impatience. 
 
 The wound occasioned by the death of Carlyle's 
 117 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 father had not yet healed, and the occurrences of 
 the morning had caused his sorrow over the loss 
 to well up in him again as at first. And the worry- 
 ing that Percival would undergo on account of 
 their little tiffs would have a bad effect on his 
 health. He was already running some tempera- 
 ture. The thought to Carlyle was like a sword- 
 thrust in his vitals. " Why is it, that, knowing 
 the right, I so often do the wrong?" he asked 
 himself bitterly — as many another has done under 
 such circumstances — remorse, sorrow, contrition, 
 coming uppermost, obliterating the provocation. 
 
 By the time he reached the ranch-house where 
 he intended purchasing almonds, he was salving 
 his conscience by making plans which would inure 
 to Percy's quicker recovery. He must get him to 
 take more raw eggs. Percy did not take kindly 
 to them, and now that the price was high (they 
 usually remained at forty cents the dozen during 
 January) did not take the quantity that he should. 
 He would serve them to him in the form of des- 
 serts. Percival liked sweet things, and, by beat- 
 ing the whites only, which were pure albumen, and 
 what he needed, with a little sugar and some 
 flavoring extract, vanilla or orange, he might 
 make something palatable which the lad would 
 relish. 
 
 The ranchman detained him showing him some 
 118 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 new arrangements in the poultry houses. The boys 
 were planning to go into poultry raising in Cali- 
 fornia, when they should be able to work again, 
 and meanwhile lost no opportunity of gathering 
 information on the subject. On nearing Camp he 
 thought how he would break the ice by telling 
 about the poultry houses the first thing on entering 
 the tent, calling him " Pete " as his father used 
 to do occasionally, and then everything would be 
 as before. 
 
 When he returned to Camp the morning was 
 more than half spent, and he was a little surprised 
 to see the breakfast-table standing as when he had 
 left it. It struck him as strange, too, that Percy 
 should not be in sight. Ordinarily after one of 
 these occurrences, when one or the other had re- 
 turned even after a half-hour's absence, the other 
 was sure to be in the tent, and each then would 
 have something to tell the other, to show that all 
 antagonism had gone. 
 
 With that accuracy of vision characteristic of 
 methodical people, the slight variation from the 
 ordinary occasioned by the absence of the water- 
 bucket and the pipe, changed the appearance of 
 the interior to Carlyle, without his consciousness 
 at first taking in the fact of their absence, or 
 wherein the change lay. 
 
 Mechanically he lifted the stove-lid to replenish 
 119 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 the fire, and saw the remains of Percy's pipe in the 
 ashes, which caused him to deprecate more than 
 before their recent misunderstanding, on seeing 
 this evidence of the lad's contrition. 
 
 The consumptive has a sword hanging over his 
 head all the time. The knowledge that he holds 
 to existence by only a slender thread sharpens his 
 vision preternaturally to the dangers which en- 
 compass him. When Carlyle noticed the absence 
 of the water-bucket, a great fear surged up in 
 him, and the little divergences from the ordinary 
 or the expected which had confronted him on en- 
 tering the tent seemed now to point to disaster for 
 Percy. 
 
 But before he had time to formulate any plan 
 of action, Mrs. Williams came in, having been 
 charged by Fillmore with the task of informing 
 him about the misfortune that had overtaken Per- 
 cival. She was in a position to reassure him now, 
 however, as more than two hours had elapsed 
 and there had been no recurrence of the hemor- 
 rhage. He was resting comfortably, and there 
 was every reason to believe that he would pull 
 through, she told him. 
 
 Carlyle, with the self-restraint which had be- 
 come a habit with him, gave but little outward sign 
 of perturbation, but went at once to the Deacon's 
 tent, where he found his brother lying in a kind of 
 120 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 stupor from the effects of the opiate. Fillmore, 
 who had remained within call ever since the occur- 
 rence, assured him that there was no danger, and 
 that if nothing untoward intervened, he might be 
 moved on the cot to his own tent in the afternoon. 
 He then suggested to him that he get things in 
 readiness for the transfer, and asked him to make 
 some beef tea. 
 
 Carlyle went about these duties in a kind of 
 daze. In these first hours he felt no acute sensa- 
 tion whether of anxiety or pain. He knew with 
 a kind of prescience that it would come later, espe- 
 cially if Percy were to die or be seriously ill, but 
 for the present he was numb, now that his worst 
 fears had been realized. He went about his camp 
 work mechanically, Fillmore remaining with the 
 patient, and at noon, when Mrs. Williams came 
 and asked him to take dinner with them, he accom- 
 panied her to her tent, talking on ordinary topics, 
 until that lady had some difficulty in keeping down 
 her indignation at such callousness. In comment- 
 ing on it afterwards to her husband, she remarked 
 that one would think that hemorrhages were an 
 every-day matter in his family he took it so calmly. 
 
 When Percival awoke about mid-afternoon, the 
 
 transfer to his own tent had been made, and he 
 
 found himself in his accustomed surroundings 
 
 with Carlyle sitting near. He turned inquiring 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 eyes about him at first; then a wave of recollec- 
 tion flooded his consciousness, and, reaching out 
 his hand from under the blankets, grasped that 
 of Carlyle, who returned an answering pressure. 
 He had made his amends. His suffering had been 
 his atonement, and the reconciliation was effected. 
 
 But in the evening, when Branscombe looked 
 in at Carlyle's tent to ask him over for a while, 
 Fillmore still remaining with the invalid, he found 
 him lying prostrate on his cot, writhing in an 
 agony of remorse, his hands clutching the blankets 
 spasmodically, his body shaken by sobs; Brans- 
 combe retreated abashed, feeling as if, in intruding 
 on such grief, he had violated a sanctity. 
 
 No trace of this agitation was visible however 
 when he came into Percy's tent a few minutes later 
 in response to a call from Fillmore, who had been 
 prompted thereto by Branscombe. The same calm, 
 imperturbable demeanor that ordinarily was his 
 characterized him now, and Branscombe mar- 
 velled anew at the repression and self-control that 
 were here exhibited. 
 
 122 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 FILLMORE was kept so busy these days by 
 his professional duties, that he forgot the 
 very existence of the L. A. A. In truth, interest 
 in the organization languished just now. The 
 tension produced by young Latimer's illness made 
 it impossible to assume these light-hearted atti- 
 tudes. Two lives were hanging in the balance, 
 and, while this continued, the fellows ceased play- 
 ing pranks and became serious. Latimer was im- 
 proving slowly, and with the good care that he 
 was receiving would probably pull through, but, 
 in the same ratio in which he was gaining, Alford 
 was losing. 
 
 " Fve just come from Alford's tent," said Fill- 
 more one morning, taking a stroll with White. 
 11 He has that high temperature regularly now 
 every afternoon, although there's probably some 
 temperature all the while. How he can stand it 
 with never a fire in his tent and none too many 
 blankets is more than I can see. Yet he says he's 
 comfortable. I wonder if he has any relatives. 
 Some one said he has a brother in North Carolina, 
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 but no one seems to know anything of his affairs. 
 He really ought to be in the hospital where he 
 could have the right attention. I see him two or 
 three times a day, and do what I can, but he 
 oughtn't to be alone at night." 
 
 " I think his funds are running low," responded 
 White, " and he's afraid of the expense of the 
 hospital. He told me that you had advised his 
 going there, but he said he couldn't afford it. He's 
 failing, and his brother ought to be communicated 
 with." 
 
 "Can't you try and get his address?" asked 
 Fillmore. " It wouldn't do for me to ask him. 
 Being his medical adviser he'd know right away 
 that there's no further hope for him. He's been 
 due now on the other side for the past week or 
 more. As it is, it's wonderful how he keeps up. 
 He's pure grit. The case is miliary, and is rapidly 
 progressing to a fatal termination. Manage it in 
 some way to get the brother's address and have 
 him come here." 
 
 Accordingly, White elaborated a most adroit 
 plan to bring this about which would leave Alford 
 none the wiser as to his motive for obtaining it. 
 It was all done surprisingly easy, but when he had 
 jotted the address in his note-book, Alford said 
 calmly: " It's better for you to have it, so that 
 when it's all over, you can wire him." 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Alford was indeed pure grit, as Fillmore had 
 said. The conditions in which he found himself 
 called for grit. It was too true, as White sur- 
 mised, that his funds were running low. The hos- 
 pital was out of the question. The accommoda- 
 tions there were limited, and if there had been 
 free beds, none would have been available, as each 
 would probably have been spoken for a dozen 
 times over. 
 
 The dread which had assailed him for the past 
 year as he saw his scanty hoard diminishing, of one 
 day coming to absolute want, was fast resolving 
 itself into a certainty, and he set himself to face 
 it with a determination born of despair. Yet how 
 he clung to life! He was so weak now that 
 he could do very little in the way of preparing 
 his own food, and for a day or two had lived 
 principally on raw eggs and milk, which was 
 quite sufficient for him in his condition, Fillmore 
 told him. 
 
 He had kept his bed the entire time for the 
 past week or more on account of his temperature 
 and general weakness. The constant fever was 
 wearing him out. Then it began to be feared 
 each evening that he might not live the night 
 through. Fillmore usually called on him in the 
 evening before going to bed, and the look of wist- 
 fulness in the sick man's eyes, full of a dumb 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 entreaty not to be left to die alone, often haunted 
 his slumbers. There were times when he was un- 
 able to withstand this mute appeal and he would 
 sit with him until midnight. 
 
 One evening he brought in a dinner-bell he had 
 gotten from town that day, and put it on the 
 stand beside the sick man's cot. Alford under- 
 stood. 
 
 " Should you feel worse and want anything 
 overnight, ring the bell and I'll come. Some one 
 or other of us will hear it and will call me should I 
 be sleeping," Fillmore said to him, and Alford 
 turned grateful eyes on him. 
 
 On the following night, when Fillmore offered 
 to sit with him until midnight, he insisted on his 
 going, saying that he felt better, and thought he 
 might have a good night's rest. Somehow, the 
 bell seemed to inspire confidence. It was like a 
 wire connecting him with his fellows. The bell 
 remained on the stand near the cot along with 
 phials and other sick-bed paraphernalia, and came 
 to be associated with the idea of his death in the 
 minds of his visitors. 
 
 But the young fellow lingered on. Each morn- 
 ing for a week, White and Fillmore, whose tents 
 adjoined, sought in the other's eyes on meeting, 
 the information that each feared to receive. Then 
 one morning White, bringing a light breakfast 
 126 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 to the sick man's tent, saw at a glance that all was 
 over. The end had come quickly and painlessly 
 by heart failure. 
 
 " How long ago is it since your illness first be- 
 gan to show itself?" Branscombe asked his part- 
 ner one morning shortly after young Latimer's 
 mishap with the hemorrhage. They were sitting 
 in the cook tent lingering over a late breakfast, 
 and had been discussing Latimer's condition and 
 his chances for recovery. Fillmore gave out en- 
 couraging reports in regard to this, stating that 
 he was making steady progress and that he might 
 be up and around again in a few weeks if every- 
 thing went well. 
 
 11 It's somewhat over a year now since I first 
 knew of it from a physician. I had been feeling 
 ill for a few months, and my wife insisted on an 
 examination being made. This revealed a slight 
 lesion; the trouble was clearly tuberculous, but in- 
 cipient, and as such, the strongest prospect of 
 recovery was held out to me." 
 
 " But you left your home only last fall? " 
 
 " Yes. I came direct to Arizona from there. 
 When the first examination was made, now over 
 a year ago, the doctor advised me to go to a sana- 
 torium, and took the necessary steps to secure me 
 admission. At that time the prognosis was most 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 favorable, and, could I have entered then, I would 
 now probably be graduated as cured." 
 
 " How was it that you did not enter? " asked 
 Branscombe. 
 
 " There was no vacancy just then in the State 
 Sanatorium, which admits patients at nominal 
 prices, four or five dollars a week. The expensive 
 private ones were out of the question for me; I 
 had only my salary, having given up most of 
 my scholars when my sickness came on. Even my 
 salary would have been continued only to the end 
 of the year had I left town to enter one of these 
 institutions. As there was no vacancy I was put 
 on the waiting list and continued my work mean- 
 while, carrying out the instructions of my physi- 
 cian so far as I was able." 
 
 " And you never got to a sanatorium at all? " 
 
 " There may have been a mistake. It is possi- 
 ble my name had been overlooked, although I 
 never had an explanation. At any rate it was 
 nearly six months after my application for admis- 
 sion was made before I was notified of a vacancy. 
 I at once presented myself for admission, but on 
 examination was refused, on the ground that they 
 accepted only incipient cases, and that, as the dis- 
 ease had now progressed beyond that stage, I was 
 not eligible." 
 
 " Good God, man ! You don't mean to say 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 that while on the waiting list you had to wait so 
 long that when your turn came around your disease 
 had progressed beyond the incipient stage, and 
 you were refused admission on that ground ! " ex- 
 claimed Branscombe, repeating the other's words 
 almost verbatim in his astonishment. 
 
 " Yes," said the other simply. " The facilities 
 are wholly inadequate to the demands in the low- 
 priced institutions. The physicians at these places 
 affirm, that, as they are unable to accommodate 
 all that apply, it is the part of wisdom to accept 
 only such as offer good chances of recovery. And 
 when you are admitted, it is not final. You enter 
 on a two-weeks' probation so as to afford an oppor- 
 tunity of examining your case. If the prospect 
 for recovery does not seem promising, you may 
 have to leave when your two weeks are up. Do 
 you know what that means to the applicants? 
 It's apt to discourage them so that it's equivalent 
 to a death-sentence at times. It's all figured out 
 scientifically and impersonally, the economic factor 
 coming first." 
 
 "The economic factor?" reiterated Brans- 
 combe. 
 
 " That's the way they put it. They are inter- 
 ested only in making cures, not in prolonging life, 
 which they affirm, is properly the function of the 
 hospital. Each individual cured goes out into the 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 world again and becomes a worker. He is then 
 of use to the commonwealth, and it has been worth 
 its while saving him. While it is true that genuine 
 cures are effected in the second stage, where the 
 disease has progressed beyond that of incipiency, 
 there is no certainty in the matter, and it is also 
 a slower and more expensive process. As the num- 
 ber of those that can be accommodated is so lim- 
 ited anyway, only those cases that seem most 
 certainly and easily curable are taken." 
 
 " It's a great wrong," cried Branscombe with 
 vehemence. " I have not thought much on these 
 subjects heretofore; they have not come my way. 
 Of course the fault is not with the authorities in 
 the institution, but rather with the State. If the 
 State undertakes the work at all, it should be able 
 to take care of as many as apply, no matter what 
 the stage of the disease. I can understand that 
 it may not be desirable in a large institution to 
 mix the advanced cases with the incipients; sepa- 
 rate accommodations should be provided the two 
 classes, but these should be adequate for all who 
 apply. To do less than this, is the grossest in- 
 justice on those who are refused. To limit the 
 scope of the work to the incipient cases is bad 
 enough, but to be so poorly provided that they 
 cannot even take care of these, so that some, while 
 waiting, are liable to lapse into the stage where 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 they will not be accepted at all, is a wrong on the 
 helpless that cries out for justice." 
 
 " That's many a man's plight exactly," replied 
 his partner calmly. " He sees life slipping away 
 while he's waiting for the chance at the five-dollar- 
 a-week accommodations that he can afford, since 
 he can't afford those at twenty dollars a week 
 offered by the private sanatoriums." 
 
 " How can you take it so easily ! " he exclaimed. 
 11 It's enough to make one's blood boil with the 
 wrong of it! " 
 
 " What is there to do? " asked the other calmly. 
 11 Do you suppose an invalid can dictate terms? 
 Let me tell you, life looks pretty barren to him. 
 He is on the * outs ' with a vengeance." After a 
 pause he continued: "The situation is such that 
 he soon gets used to injustice; he meets it on all 
 sides. Others hurt him — he doesn't think of re- 
 prisal. He endures with what patience he can 
 summon, glad when others are half-way civil to 
 him. Often people are openly hostile to us on the 
 supposition that the disease is infectious. It's not 
 infectious; not even contagious in any right sense 
 of the word. It's communicable, but only through 
 the sputum; when that's guarded against, there's 
 no danger. People act toward us as if we had no 
 rights whatever; they don't care how they hurt us. 
 Most fortunate people are strangers to pity." He 
 131 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 spoke dispassionately, from inner conviction, ap- 
 parently without bitterness. 
 
 " The situation of some of the others in the 
 Camp here," he resumed after a pause, " is very 
 similar. Could they have entered a health camp 
 or sanatorium at once, on discovering their trouble, 
 the outcome in each case would be more favorable, 
 and some, without doubt, would now be cured. 
 As it is, they will continue the struggle for years, 
 to be worsted in the end, most likely. And the 
 money they are now spending is greatly in excess 
 of what it would have cost to cure them, had they 
 gone at it rightly on the start." 
 
 " And all for the want of a little planning," 
 mused Branscombe. 
 
 " Every one commends gifts to colleges," pur- 
 sued the other, " and very properly too. The 
 tuition fees of any of the big colleges would not 
 half meet the cost of maintenance. It follows that 
 the work would not be half as efficient as it is, if 
 it were not for the endowments. Not a student 
 at college anywhere, but what is a beneficiary in 
 the sense that he gets something that he does not 
 pay for. Yet the matter of higher education be- 
 comes insignificant when compared with the tuber- 
 culosis problem. What good is education to a 
 man like me? Wouldn't it be better to be healthy 
 even if I didn't know how to spell anything beyond 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 two-syllabled words? Of the one hundred and 
 thirty thousand people who die annually of con- 
 sumption in this country a goodly proportion could 
 without doubt recover and go to work again, if 
 the right facilities at the right time were provided 
 them. Cures in this disease, as is very well known, 
 are no longer problematical ; they are being effected 
 every day. It is only a question of some one to 
 plan for the invalid. Money wisely expended in 
 health camps and endowments would be the means 
 of saving thousands of lives annually. So far as 
 securing practical results go, it can be made to 
 accomplish five times as much in this work as in 
 ordinary hospital work in the East." 
 
 A hectic flush appeared in his face, and Brans- 
 combe endeavored to change the conversation, 
 fearing that he was tiring himself, but he continued 
 after a short interval: "The endowments to the 
 Conservatory enabled me to secure a better musical 
 education than would have been possible other- 
 wise. Had some provision been made to meet 
 the necessities of the situation in the tuberculosis 
 problem as in the former case, who can doubt that 
 I would not now be as well as ever, and earning 
 my way?" 
 
 u Just now I should say it was a case for private 
 initiative," said Fillmore, who had come over to 
 borrow some eggs until afternoon when the egg 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 man would come, and had heard the latter part 
 of the Deacon's discourse. " The individual must 
 be brought to see his obligation in the matter first. 
 Legislation will follow. Already a great interest 
 is being manifested in the work. One sees men- 
 tion of it constantly in the papers and magazines. 
 This in itself is bound to tell." 
 
 " I've passed that kind of thing hitherto," said 
 Branscombe, " but now I begin to see its impor- 
 tance." 
 
 " It's as important as any question before the 
 world to-day," rejoined Fillmore. " As an in- 
 stance, take White, in our Camp here; a man of 
 first-rate ability, with any kind of a fine future 
 before him had he kept his health. Such a man 
 has it in him to contribute much to the world's 
 work. The cost of saving him is infinitesimal in 
 comparison to his value to the community. If the 
 economic factor, which on the whole is not so out 
 of place in the question, were carried out to its 
 logical sequence, it would include the effort to save 
 such men even if they are in the second stage of 
 the disease." 
 
 The conversation, following so soon on young 
 Latimer's illness, made a profound impression on 
 Branscombe, acquainting him with the tragic pos- 
 sibilities of the life all about him. He had not 
 half gauged it before, he reflected. 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 His partner's recital stirred him deeply, and it 
 set him thinking. From the beginning of his 
 acquaintance with the Deacon he had had an intui- 
 tive perception of his talents, and had been drawn 
 to him even before they camped together. He 
 recognized in him the artist's nature. Here was 
 a man who might make his mark in the world 
 could he regain his health! 
 
 All at once he saw the situation as it was. He 
 had not at all apprehended it before. The tragedy 
 of it! This talented young fellow's life hanging 
 in the balance with all the chances against him 
 unless some one came actively to his aid. And 
 then he saw that he might be this " some one," 
 that it was " up to him," in the Camp parlance, 
 to save his partner's life, if it were to be saved at 
 all; and he accepted the charge without hesita- 
 tion. To rescue him from the clutches of his 
 disease and restore him to a life of usefulness — 
 here was a work cut ready to hand — a work 
 worthy of his highest powers. It seemed felicitous 
 that it should have come his way, that he should 
 be the instrument by which it might be achieved, 
 and he began to set all his wits to work to accom- 
 plish it. 
 
 Though shy and undemonstrative, he made it 
 his business to watch over him and see that the 
 medical directions were carefully adhered to. He 
 13S 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 saw to it that he had just the diet that he needed, 
 he kept work and worry from him as much as 
 possible, and made various efforts to entertain him. 
 That this intelligent supervision was the result of 
 conferences that Branscombe held with the Dea- 
 con's physician was never known by the young 
 man. 
 
 The Deacon's case was not so promising a one 
 as was White's, for instance. Temperament has 
 an important influence in the matter. While 
 camping alone, he had been apt to brood on the 
 changes that had come over his life, and had 
 barely managed to hold his own. Branscombe 
 was told by the physician that the outlook was not 
 favorable, but this made him all the more deter- 
 mined to succeed, to match his skill against the 
 enemy's and come out ahead. To this end the 
 young man's wife must come out in the early fall. 
 He would exert himself to get a position for her 
 as organist in some church, and he was sure she 
 could get pupils also. From what he gathered 
 from his partner she had not been well herself of 
 late, probably owing to worries brought about by 
 the husband's illness. No doubt each would be 
 the gainer through her coming. 
 
 He recalled the episode of carrying water for 
 the Deacon, which had led to their acquaintance. 
 His partner had told him a number of times since, 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 what a boon it had been to him, and how, being 
 hemorrhagic, the same thing might have befallen 
 him as had happened to Latimer had he been com- 
 pelled to continue the practice. A project which 
 had been floating in his mind ever since, now began 
 to assume definite shape, the matter having been 
 hastened by Latimer's mishap. When he saw 
 what a relief it had been to the Deacon not to 
 have to carry water, the thought occurred to him 
 that it would be a great advantage to have a well 
 on the grounds so that no one would have to carry 
 any. This would necessitate owning the land on 
 which the Camp was situated, but that would not 
 be a great matter. 
 
 On the morning following the conversation with 
 his partner, just recorded, he proceeded to town 
 to put his project into execution, opening negotia- 
 tions with the owner for the purchase of the land 
 through an attorney, whom he charged specially 
 to take precautions to prevent his own participa- 
 tion in the matter from becoming known. The 
 affair was soon brought to a successful issue, upon 
 which he made arrangements in regard to the well. 
 This was followed in due course by a windmill 
 and tank, so that the water could be piped to the 
 tents. 
 
 Branscombe's health, heretofore fairly good 
 according to the ordinary standards, was greatly 
 137 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 improved by the simple life he was living. The 
 work, which gave him an object in life and made 
 him more contented, the pure air, the sound sleep 
 that comes to the sojourner on the desert — all 
 were factors in a rejuvenation that was as welcome 
 as it was novel. Not since his youth had he known 
 the kind of sleep he now enjoyed. In the vigor 
 that it brought him it was like a recurrence to 
 youth. It was a new experience to this town-bred 
 man, whose strength had been sapped by the town 
 life, who had never known the elation that comes 
 from living out of doors — this tasting the joys of 
 perfect health. In this respect he was getting as 
 much benefit from the desert life as any invalid 
 of them all. 
 
 The sanity and wholesomeness of the life — how 
 it appealed to him ! Not a day but what he was 
 glad to be here. He often wondered why the 
 brain-fagged lawyers and business men, and the 
 society women living along on the verge of nervous 
 prostration — types of which he had often met in 
 New York — he often wondered why they did not 
 try the desert cure if only for a month or two. 
 
 138 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 J7W?, 
 
 "T"\0 you know chamber-music to any ex- 
 \J tent?" asked the Deacon rather shyly, 
 as was his wont when talking shop. The question 
 was evoked on hearing Branscombe whistle some- 
 thing from a Beethoven quartet as he entered the 
 cook-tent where he found his partner taking his 
 mid-morning raw eggs. Branscombe nodded an 
 affirmative, and the Deacon went on: "There's 
 a lot in it, especially in that kind. The better class 
 of chamber-music always appealed to me, and I 
 gave up a great deal of time to it. But it can 
 only be appreciated rightly when you know it by 
 heart and can carry it through in your inner 
 consciousness. I had abundant opportunities for 
 hearing it at Leipzig. There was an excellent 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 string quartet there, as well as two or three small 
 orchestras among the students at the Conserva- 
 tory." 
 
 " They do those things better out there than 
 here," replied Branscombe. " It was a revelation 
 to me in Paris, the way they performed some 
 things I was familiar with. Even a non-musician 
 can attain to some culture in the art under such 
 favoring conditions." The expression in his face 
 showed that here were pleasant reminiscences. 
 
 11 1 came to know many of the Beethoven quar- 
 tets by heart," continued the Deacon, " I heard 
 them so much. Of course it's scholasticism, to 
 make so much of one master on general princi- 
 ples, because he had reached the most command- 
 ing place in the art. While we were at it, many 
 of us would have preferred Schubert if we had 
 been entirely honest with ourselves, but few could 
 have been found guilty of the heresy of saying it." 
 
 " The world's verdict though on all important 
 matters is right," replied Branscombe. " We 
 have to work up to the level of what we cannot 
 at first appreciate. The reward comes later. I 
 went to Paris to study painting, but was fortunate 
 in falling in with musical people whose society 
 was an education in itself. One or two were re- 
 lated to great musicians, and one, an old gentle- 
 man, had been a pupil of Chopin, and had known 
 140 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Liszt as a young man. I came to learn or rather 
 absorb, through them, more of this art than of 
 painting." 
 
 u It's been a great resource to me out here on 
 the desert," mused the Deacon, " to know so much 
 really good music by heart. It enables me to have 
 concerts all by myself. I am not limited to the 
 quartets, although being simpler in construction, 
 they are more easily carried through in the con- 
 sciousness. One can develop one's imaginative 
 faculties by exercise just as any other talent. My 
 memory serves me well, and I often derive as much 
 enjoyment in this way as I formerly did in the 
 actual performance." 
 
 Branscombe remembered the rapt look that he 
 had sometimes surprised in his partner's face on 
 returning after an absence from the Camp. 
 
 " It's a mistake to suppose that because a great 
 name is attached to a composition it is beyond 
 one's comprehension," said Branscombe. " Even 
 the last quartets of Beethoven, difficult and unin- 
 telligible as they are said to be, can be readily 
 understood through familiarity with them, and 
 always, in some portion, as if to tempt one, he 
 comes down to one's level, as if to induce one after- 
 ward to rise to his. Take the Opus 131 from 
 which I have just been whistling " 
 
 " You like it, I can see I " interrupted his part- 
 141 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 ner, his face radiating pleasure. Then he took the 
 centre of the space, as if in the midst of a group, 
 and began whistling the theme of the Presto, in 
 which Branscombe, entering into the spirit of the 
 thing, joined. When they came to the conversa- 
 tional part they alternated. At the short im- 
 promptu, which ushers in a repetition of the open- 
 ing theme, the Deacon whistled it alone, while 
 Branscombe danced, slapping his hands and knees 
 in a running accompaniment. The Deacon's eyes 
 sparkled, a flush appeared on his face; he was the 
 young student again, out for fun. " Whenever 
 I hear that Presto," said he as he sat down to 
 rest, " I imagine a lot of boisterous students repre- 
 senting the different instruments having invaded 
 the orchestra and playing pranks. It's a lively 
 dance-tune, and when one instrument seemingly 
 becomes exhausted, the theme is taken in hand by 
 another, the basses sometimes playing the melody 
 to an accompaniment of cat-calls by the other in- 
 struments." 
 
 " And to think that this was composed in the 
 greatest distress of mind. It illustrates how ab- 
 sorbing all creative work becomes in the hands of 
 talented people," commented Branscombe. 
 
 On returning from town the following morning, 
 he surprised his partner busy at notation and be- 
 gan talking to him about it. 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 " It's something I've had in mind for some 
 time, but until recently have not been in the mood 
 for it. I'm feeling better now, so I thought I 
 would attempt it." 
 
 Branscombe was interested and asked him to tell 
 him more about it. 
 
 " One of my instructors at Leipzig suggested 
 the subject to me. He considered me good at 
 fugue, and thought something might be done with 
 it, but I'm doubtful." 
 
 "What is the subject?" 
 
 For answer, his partner showed him the title- 
 page and synopsis. 
 
 1 Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-mor- 
 row we die. To be cast in the form of a double 
 fugue, the strings and wood-winds singing a lively, 
 spirited dance-tune, in the minor, while the brasses, 
 in undertones, with prophetic warning, tell of the 
 morrow." 
 
 Branscombe, startled into vehemence by the 
 infelice subject, uttered an exclamation of surprise 
 and disapproval. 
 
 " You shouldn't attempt anything of that kind. 
 Let me urge you to drop it. It will depress you. 
 You're getting along so well now. Don't do any- 
 thing to hinder it." 
 
 11 I hadn't thought of it in that light," said the 
 other mildly. " If I really became interested in 
 
 143 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 the work, it would not be depressing; I would 
 think only of the artistic side of the question." 
 
 The situation held elements of the comic in it, 
 in the man's absolute lack of the sense of humor, 
 thought Branscombe savagely. Had he possessed 
 even a glimmering perception of it, or had any 
 idea of the fitness of things, such a subject, under 
 existing circumstances could not have occurred to 
 him. There was something grotesque, satyr-like 
 about it. 
 
 "Why don't you have your wife come out?" 
 he asked him after a pause. " You tell me she 
 remained behind on account of holding a position 
 as organist, but something of the same sort can be 
 had here." 
 
 " She would like to come, of course, and it 
 would be better for both of us," said the Deacon 
 with some animation. 
 
 " I'll exert myself during the summer to get her 
 a position. Changes are frequently made here I 
 fancy, as most people go away during the hot 
 weather. In any event, there will be no difficulty 
 about pupils." 
 
 u She'll be glad to come," reiterated the Dea- 
 con, " especially when there's a prospect of a posi- 
 tion. I'm writing her this afternoon and will 
 mention it." 
 
 " And you must drop the fugue ! My word for 
 144 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 it, it's bound to have an unfavorable effect, any- 
 thing so doleful as that. If it were a jig now, I 
 wouldn't seek to discourage you." 
 
 It came to be such a satisfaction to Branscombe 
 to contemplate the advantages that would accrue 
 to the campers from the well, especially as, by the 
 exercise of his ruse to conceal his identity with the 
 work, their gratitude would be obviated, that he 
 began to cast about for more work of a similar 
 nature before it was completed. When he consid- 
 ered that his outlay of a few hundreds might result 
 in preventing deaths which otherwise would be 
 likely to occur, it seemed to him that his money 
 was purchasing more than any like amount he had 
 ever expended. 
 
 A windy day brought him his opportunity. He 
 recalled the recent windstorm and the plight of 
 the campers ; how the fellows either had to go into 
 town and sit in some cafe all day, or batten up 
 their tents as much as possible and remain indoors 
 on account of the dust. It occurred to him that 
 it would be a good plan to build a casino for them. 
 It could be like a bungalo, ventilated from the 
 roof and sides in such a way that the dust would 
 be excluded while admitting an abundance of good 
 air. It would also come in fine as a general meet- 
 ing place evenings. He would have a good tight 
 floor to the building so that it would be comfort- 
 145 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 able. Ample heating facilities would be provided, 
 as well as an open fireplace. He would send for 
 his piano and pianola, and they would have recitals 
 when in the mood. He would have his paintings 
 — well, no, on second thoughts, not the paintings, 
 at least not the nudes (the elimination left rather 
 a small residue) — the Deacon's wife would be out 
 in the early fall and he must have due regard for 
 her sensibilities — but the engravings could come, 
 and the rugs and bric-a-brac. The full-length 
 plaster casts which he had brought from Paris for 
 his studio on the Palisades — these would give an 
 artistic touch to the room. He would dismantle 
 the studio, sell it, and have all the trappings 
 sent on. 
 
 The furniture too; how well the Chippendale 
 pieces would look here! He would fit up the 
 casino like the old studio. He would put in some 
 good novels too, and would subscribe for a half- 
 dozen newspapers and some magazines. 
 
 It was with a positive elation that he went on 
 building these air-castles. The best of it was that 
 he at once proceeded to put foundations under 
 them, possibly influenced thereto by the dry, stimu- 
 lating atmosphere of the desert. 
 
 His thoughts recurred again to his nudes. He 
 would sell them, all except the Aurora. He would 
 give that to the Herr Professor in the little Black 
 146 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Forest village. It was the best of the lot, for 
 which he had paid two thousand francs years ago, 
 and was well worthy a place even in that collec- 
 tion. He had not heard from him directly in sev- 
 eral years, but he knew he was still living, as 
 he came across frequent references to him in the 
 papers. That would be the best disposition to 
 make of it. 
 
 Clearly the nudes would be incongruous in this 
 environment. The Deacon's wife was evidently 
 as simple-minded in such matters as was the hus- 
 band; at least he judged so by her letters, which 
 the young man, in his husbandly pride in so choice 
 a possession, sometimes handed him to read. 
 Reading between the lines Branscombe saw that 
 the separation was as much of an ordeal for her 
 as for the husband, although it was not allowed 
 to appear on the surface. 
 
 Brave little woman! he must build a house 
 adapted to the climate so that she might be made 
 comfortable when she came. It need not be large 
 nor elaborate. A few large rooms on the main 
 floor, while above there would be sleeping porches 
 opening out from dressing-rooms — this would be 
 all that was necessary. The walls must be built 
 double so as to render it comfortable in summer. 
 And there should be plenty of tiled and cemented 
 space outside, interspersed with umbrella-trees and 
 147 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Italian cedars, and he would have gardens, and 
 date palms, and giant cacti, and a fountain! 
 
 He had some misgivings when he came to con- 
 sider the difficulty there might be in keeping his 
 own connection with the work from becoming 
 known. He could not have explained to himself 
 even his reluctance to appear in the role of a 
 philanthropist, unless it was that his life hitherto 
 had not been of a kind to make this character 
 appear consistent. His ideas on the subject of 
 philanthropists were vague and ill-defined at best, 
 but it was obvious that this role would not do for 
 him. Mile. Fifine appeared again on his mental 
 horizon. He imagined her ripples of laughter at 
 any suggestion coupling him with such work. 
 
 It was characteristic of him that in recall- 
 ing these phases of the old life it was generally 
 to hold them up to scorn. The tawdry, artificial 
 life of the Latin Quarter! How cheap and com- 
 monplace it seemed to him now, contrasted with 
 the present, which seemed to offer some justifica- 
 tion for living. 
 
 His attempt at maintaining his anonymity did 
 not seem so futile to him as it would have done to 
 a more practical man. He knew, of course, that 
 when the casino came to be fitted up with costly 
 furnishings, the matter would have to be accounted 
 for, and some one would have to be placed in 
 148 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 charge. He consulted his attorney about it, who 
 had ready counsel. 
 
 " I will give out that the land and building have 
 been donated by a wealthy tourist stopping in 
 town, who has noticed the camp, and wishes to do 
 something for the occupants." 
 
 11 That's all right, but who is to take charge 
 of it?" 
 
 " You are," was the reply. " I will simply 
 state that the donor has placed the business super- 
 vision of the matter in my hands, and that I have 
 appointed you to relieve me of this part of the 
 work, since you are living on the grounds." 
 
 It was a great day for the Deacon when the 
 piano reached the Camp. As it was a wing, there 
 was no thought of getting it into either tent, but 
 Branscombe solved the difficulty by putting up two 
 tent flies, one over the other, for protection from 
 sun and rain, and stood the instrument on a plat- 
 form beneath. When not in use it was further 
 protected by a canvas covering fitted around it. 
 As soon as the casino was finished — it was ap- 
 proaching completion — the instrument would be 
 moved there. 
 
 Notwithstanding its rather high-sounding name, 
 
 the casino was simply a one-storied building, 
 
 raised several steps above the level of the ground, 
 
 consisting of one large room. It had an abundance 
 
 149 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 of windows. The ceiling followed the contour of 
 the roof-timbers, running to the centre, from which 
 a ventilating apparatus projected over the roof. 
 Ventilating arrangements were provided at the 
 side walls also, which, with the open fireplace, 
 insured pure air at all times. The lighting was 
 done by electricity, so there was no contamination, 
 as would have been the case had lamps been used. 
 The interior was plastered, the roof-timbers pro- 
 jected between the plastering, and there was a 
 hardwood floor. 
 
 The colossal bas-relief plaster casts, together 
 with the furniture and other appointments, avail- 
 able after the dismantling of his studio made an 
 artistic ensemble. By the use of tall Japanese 
 screens an enclosure was obtained in one corner 
 like a smaller room. Books and magazines were 
 scattered about on small tables, couches and easy 
 chairs abounded. 
 
 It was indeed an important feature of the Camp, 
 this assembly-room, and was resorted to each even- 
 ing by the boys in general tor an hour or two, 
 but there was an unwritten law that it was not to 
 be used during daylight except on the rare occa- 
 sions of dust-storms. On such days it was a haven 
 to them. 
 
 Occasionally a young ranchman from the vicin- 
 ity strolled in. The attorney called one evening 
 150 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 with Bob Hinton, noted rider and broncho buster. 
 Most of the members had been to the steer-tying 
 contests, where Hinton was one of the shining 
 lights, and it was a great event to meet him person- 
 ally. He was a fluent talker, was perfectly natural 
 and unconstrained, and entertained the company 
 famously with anecdotes of his adventures. Al- 
 though only thirty-five his life would have yielded 
 materials for an exciting border romance. Next 
 season the Deacon's wife could organize an occa- 
 sional song recital there. 
 
 While the casino was yet under way, Brans- 
 combe began drawing plans for a bathhouse and 
 laundry. The lack of bathing facilities was a 
 great privation in his own case, and of course 
 equally so in that of the others. A conversation 
 he had with Fillmore one day, as they were going 
 into town together, led to this. 
 
 " I don't know of anything that is needed more," 
 replied Fillmore when the subject was broached. 
 " The fellows nearly all take cold baths each 
 morning. Their tents are cold, they splash water 
 about, and in general their baths are taken under 
 difficulties. A warm room containing a few shower 
 baths, with a hot-water attachment, so as to have 
 the chill taken off when necessary, would be a 
 great convenience." 
 
 " The laundry will be a room adjoining, in 
 I5i 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 the same structure," said Branscombe, who had 
 already given the matter some consideration. 
 " The fire required to warm the room will heat 
 the water for bath or laundry purposes. There 
 will be the usual appliances of a laundry: station- 
 ary tubs, a washing machine and wringer, as well 
 as a mangle. Pedro can operate the whole." 
 Pedro was a Mexican who had recently been em- 
 ployed to look after the casino, and do other camp 
 work. 
 
 14 The advantage from a hygienic point of view, 
 of having one's own laundry cannot be overesti- 
 mated," said Fillmore. " I have a theory that the 
 bacilli are far more virulent in some individuals 
 than in others, and there's a possibility of re- 
 infection from wearing-apparel sent to a public 
 laundry. In such a one as is now proposed, every- 
 thing could be sterilized. I hope you will be able 
 to influence the party contemplating this improve- 
 ment to go on with it," said he gravely, as they 
 were about to separate after some further discus- 
 sion of the matter. u In its advantages to the 
 Camp, it will be of equal importance with the 
 
 casino." 
 
 Branscombe promised to do his best, and 
 thought the matter could be managed without 
 delay. 
 
 It was managed without delay, the lumber be- 
 152 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 ing on the grounds and the plumbing material 
 ordered before the week was out. The building 
 was simple, being in effect a tent-house. There 
 were three dressing-rooms, as well as shower-baths ; 
 a wooden partition divided it from the laundry 
 part. A small frame building was constructed 
 near by, containing a bathtub for the women. 
 
 The casino had the effect of establishing closer 
 relations between Branscombe and the campers. 
 Fillmore had been the first to break the ice, having 
 called on him even before its inception. He had 
 made a shrewd guess that to Branscombe was to 
 be attributed the improvements that had been 
 made in the Camp, which was confirmed on better 
 acquaintance by little slips which escaped him in 
 conversation. With fine tact he humored the evi- 
 dent desire of the other to remain anonymous; 
 when he had occasion to refer to the donor, it was 
 always in the third person. 
 
 Branscombe had so far no definite design in the 
 work he had done for the Camp. Not much 
 money had been expended, only the immediate 
 present having been considered. His mental out- 
 look was broadening all the while however. When 
 he started in on the well, he experienced such a 
 degree of gratification in easing the situation for 
 the people about him that he was led insensibly to 
 make further efforts on the same lines. 
 153 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 His partner's history and his proximity to the 
 campers had brought him face to face with the 
 very real trouble that illness brings to the indi- 
 vidual; and although these young men appeared 
 content, often concealing pain and distress under 
 a gay demeanor, he knew very well that the gayety 
 was often assumed to enable them the better to 
 bear up under the burden. 
 
 Young Latimer's mishap with the hemorrhage 
 through which his life was still hanging in the 
 balance, its resultant effect on Carlyle which he 
 had witnessed on coming into his tent that even- 
 ing, Alford's death — these had been in a sense 
 object-lessons to him. Through them he came to 
 see the tragedy that is everywhere just under the 
 surface in life, and depths of his nature were 
 stirred by the spectacle, of which he had hitherto 
 remained unknowing, unconscious, which seemed 
 to lift him for always, out of the petty and com- 
 monplace into nobler planes of thought. The 
 blessedness as well as the necessity of the altruistic 
 life became understandable in the light of recent 
 experiences. It was as if conversion had followed 
 on repentance. And conversion may be none the 
 less possible, none the less genuine, though mourn- 
 er's bench, minister, even church be eliminated. 
 
 154 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THAT the Deacon's health was improving 
 under the better regimen became readily 
 apparent to Branscombe, and it became an inter- 
 esting work — this fight that he was waging for his 
 partner's life. Although the physician held out 
 but little encouragement, the Deacon seemed to 
 have quick recuperative powers. He had suffered 
 from loneliness before, and the camp work, some 
 of it, was beyond his strength. Now that he 
 had better diet and the unfavorable influences were 
 eliminated, his organism quickly responded to the 
 change. 
 
 Along with his physical improvement came also 
 a more contented frame of mind and heightened 
 mental power. There may have been something 
 in the dry, ozonic atmosphere which stimulated 
 cerebration, or it may have been the attrition of 
 mind on mind. However it was, he became con- 
 scious of a quickening of the intellectual powers 
 and found that he was again living to some pur- 
 pose. In the keenness of his sensations, in the 
 155 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 quickness of his perceptions, in everything that is 
 of the essence of life, he felt strengthened and 
 rejuvenated. 
 
 He had been enjoined for many months from 
 practising as it fatigued him too much. When 
 the piano reached the Camp, it was with a verita- 
 ble hunger that he came to the instrument. He 
 had never realized until now the extent of the 
 privation he had undergone since leaving his home. 
 His custom, for some months before coming to 
 Arizona, as regards his practising, had been to 
 take a reading of his temperature and pulse 
 before sitting down to the instrument, repeating 
 this after having played a half-hour. If there 
 was marked acceleration, he stopped playing for 
 that day. 
 
 It was not merely the physical strain that had 
 to be considered; the psychological effect also en- 
 tered into the question in those days. Some works, 
 in particular the Sonatas of Beethoven's later 
 years, excited him so much that he was compelled 
 to leave them alone for the most part ; they drained 
 him of his vitality. Certain of the Chopin Pre- 
 ludes had this effect also. Even when hearing 
 them performed by another, they had in his weak- 
 ened state set his pulses throbbing and his nerves 
 a-quivering. 
 
 He now found, as a reward for his winter's 
 
 i 5 6 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 sojourn on the desert, that a moderate amount of 
 playing did not fatigue him. After an hour of 
 it, there was no abnormal change in pulse or tem- 
 perature, and he got into the habit of giving little 
 impromptu recitals each afternoon after the camp 
 work was out of the way. The silence of the 
 desert enabled the others to participate without 
 leaving their quarters. 
 
 In anticipation of the arrival of the instrument 
 he had sent for a few of his favorite compositions, 
 those by Chopin being most in evidence. He had 
 the temperament for Chopin and had been told 
 already in his student days that he interpreted him 
 admirably. Since the advent of his illness, how- 
 ever — since he had been called on to renounce so 
 much, eating his heart out in idleness and soli- 
 tude, far from wife and kindred — since then he 
 had come to him with a wider comprehension. 
 Many things became plain to him now, of which 
 in health he had had no conception. His in- 
 terior vision had become preternaturally devel- 
 oped in his present mode of life, in which he 
 was thrown back and upon himself almost en- 
 tirely. With nothing in his external life that 
 appealed to him, and with more leisure than he 
 knew well how to employ, he lived mostly in his 
 imagination. This strongly intuitional nature, in- 
 clined to mysticism as is the case with many highly 
 157 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 organized people, had his moments of exaltation 
 when at the instrument, and his performances 
 came to mean much more to him than mere amuse- 
 ment. A deep, inward serenity permeated his 
 consciousness at such times, and he seemed to ad- 
 vance by leaps and bounds in comprehension of 
 the subtleties of the masters he was interpreting. 
 In this state impressions were conveyed to him 
 by successive flashes of enlightenment transcend- 
 ing any other experience of life. The Master 
 now spoke to him with a new meaning, in a lan- 
 guage idealized, sublimated — a language in 
 which the neophyte was equally well versed, since 
 both had been schooled in it by the same dread 
 disease. 
 
 In the same ratio in which music as an art tran- 
 scends all other arts in power of expression, so 
 do the later works of Chopin seem to transcend 
 all other creative work in their subjectivity. How 
 these fluctuations, these varyings, betokened the 
 alternations of hope and despair, as if recording 
 the course of his disease! It seemed now to the 
 disciple out on the desert, when playing again 
 after the long interval in which he had been with- 
 out an instrument, that he knew by a kind of 
 divination with just what thought the Master had 
 projected them. It often seemed as if he were 
 speaking to him directly through these pages com- 
 158 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 municating some esoteric intelligence — as if he had 
 had him in mind while composing the works — as 
 if he were conscious and holding communion with 
 him. 
 
 In thus laying bare the very innermost recesses 
 of his spiritual life, the Master demonstrated how 
 he was able to lose himself in these creations. In 
 picturing his disappointment and despair, the neo- 
 phyte saw as by divination how the sorrows of the 
 other must have left him in the joy of artistic 
 achievement. In the play of his emotions he may 
 well have forgotten his pain. In his wonder at 
 the quality of the art-product he was creating, he 
 became reconciled to the price that was being ex- 
 acted for it; for the spirituality, the insight which 
 makes such achievements possible the Deacon now 
 saw is vouchsafed only to those hovering on the 
 border-land of the other world; and it seemed to 
 him at times, that the price was not too great. 
 
 One other affected him profoundly, too. Men- 
 tion has been made of the last three Sonatas of 
 Beethoven. To these works, and to the opening 
 number of the Mass in D, all of the same period 
 of production, the Deacon always came with won- 
 der and a kind of awe, as of a being privileged 
 to approach, though perhaps as yet only on the 
 threshold, a mystery ineffable, the full revelation 
 of which he divined was reserved only for the 
 159 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 worthiest lives. They were to him something hal- 
 lowed, set apart, not to be approached in every 
 mood — to be reserved for his best moments. 
 
 This subjectivity — this intense interiority ex- 
 hibited in the later works of Beethoven as well as 
 of Chopin, which impresses the beholder as of a 
 life-tragedy transpiring before his very eyes — 
 which it indeed is — how it appealed to him! how 
 it stood out in this environment ! The desert sup- 
 plied a unique setting for it and its significance 
 was heightened thereby. In the vastness and still- 
 ness and isolation from counter influences which 
 the desert affords, this art-work seemed the one 
 pregnant point in the universe. 
 
 The artistic possibilities in Branscombe respond- 
 ed to the master-performances of his partner and 
 strengthened the bond between them. In his circle 
 in Paris there had been a Chopin cult; he was 
 familiar with the Preludes and much of the other 
 work, but he realized that he had never really 
 appreciated them until now. The technique had 
 been correct enough; it was in the interpretation 
 that the difference lay, — in that, and yes! in him- 
 self too, in his own larger receptivity. It was to 
 him an initiation into a new world of thought — 
 this revelation of the music of the Polish master 
 which took place through his partner's instru- 
 mentality. He recognized it as yet another out- 
 160 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 come of the worthier life he was living — this 
 heightened sensibility toward such things. 
 
 On one occasion the Deacon began his after- 
 noon performance with a Chopin Prelude, the 
 sadness of which, ending in despair, he had found 
 so depressing that he had kept away from it hith- 
 erto. He continued with others of the same class, 
 and Branscombe, sitting in his tent near by, listened 
 spellbound. From the beginning, as the open- 
 ing chords were struck, his attention was arrested 
 by something unusual in the performance. He 
 had often heard the Prelude performed in Paris, 
 but never had such a tragic significance been given 
 it as now. 
 
 How like life it was, even in its brevity, he 
 thought. And these buoyant tone-figures intro- 
 duced in the midst of the tragedy, like the sud- 
 den irresistible leap of the fancy to flights of joy, 
 irradiating for the moment the gray background 
 with their note of cheer, then quickly called back 
 again to the somber things, the painful things — 
 how like life this! And all the while in under- 
 tones the theme with varying harmony and meas- 
 ured rhythm forging ahead like the tread of many 
 feet marching on to the fulfillment of some inex- 
 orable destiny! 
 
 As the brief recital approached its end, it 
 seemed to Branscombe as if he were looking into 
 
 161 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 his partner's soul, and he became aware that the 
 other had been speaking to him through his art, 
 conveying his thoughts through this most subtle 
 medium, giving him an epitome of his life, with all 
 its protest against fate. The pent-up fury, the bit- 
 terness that he had never expressed in words, the 
 disappointment over thwarted ambitions, the im- 
 potent rage when he reflected that the sacrifice 
 was unnecessary and might have been warded off 
 — all the tragedy of his life had been depicted in 
 this half-hour's performance, causing Branscombe 
 to be profoundly affected by it, and leading him 
 to resolve anew to do all that was possible to aid 
 in his restoration to health. 
 
 The psychology of suffering, its adequate por- 
 trayal — perhaps this is the highest and truest in 
 all art, demanding the best from human endeavor 
 at every stage of the effort from its incipiency in 
 the artist's mind to its perception by the beholder. 
 The spiritual essence that exists in every great 
 art-work, — evidence of the divine intervention in 
 human affairs, is always most apparent here, its 
 purpose and message — self-illumination. Much 
 of the Chopin music and many of the creations 
 of Beethoven's later years are in this class, intime, 
 soul-searching, a veritable language of sorrow. 
 Only the soul which has suffered is capable of this 
 kind of portrayal — only such a one is qualified to 
 162 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 receive its message. Born in pain, in a very travail 
 of anguish, these works tell their story fully in 
 some mystical way only to such as have suffered 
 equally with the creator of them; they pass over 
 the heads of others, speaking to them merely 
 through their artifice. 
 
 We would look in vain for a message of this 
 kind in the large musical forms — those intended 
 for stage representation — the Opera, or even the 
 Symphony or Oratorio. Even in such portions 
 of them in which the effect sought for is the por- 
 trayal of sorrow, it falls wide of the mark as com- 
 pared with the other; it exhibits only a dramatic 
 sorrow, it is not intime; it makes no personal 
 appeal as in the case of the other, which speaks 
 directly to the individual need. The one is like 
 oratory; the other, the heartfelt sympathy of the 
 friend. 
 
 The message speaks strongly to men like Brans- 
 combe, who, while capable of the higher life have 
 chosen the lower of set purpose and have been 
 brought to the point where they see their mistake. 
 To such, who have been made to suffer by their 
 folly, who, when their eyes have been opened to 
 a realization of it have bowed their necks to the 
 yoke, and in atoning are transformed — to these 
 regenerate ones is the artist's message fully re- 
 vealed. To the soul that has once seen itself face 
 
 163 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 to face, accepting humbly its penance, acquiescing 
 in it, making no plea, desiring only reinstatement 
 — to such a one is given the spiritual essence of 
 works of this nature. He is partaker with the 
 artist in the Mystery, participant in the miracle 
 enacted. 
 
 164 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 " A NY °^ y° u f e U° ws heard anything regard- 
 ±\. ing Blakeslee ? " asked a visitor at the 
 Camp one morning. He lived in town, and had 
 known White and Fillmore the previous year. He 
 came to the Camp periodically, and soon became 
 acquainted with the party. 
 
 "Who's Blakeslee ?" asked Farrell, of the 
 " Wells-Fargo outfit." 
 
 " A lunger who came here last year with a full- 
 dress outfit. Fine fellow; good as they make 'em, 
 but he didn't know what he was up against or he 
 would have cut that out. He and White were 
 partners all last summer in Prescott." 
 
 " Your turn, White," said another, Bruce Mc- 
 Sorley by name. He was a Scotchman, but on 
 account of his freckles and auburn hair had been 
 dubbed " Micky." This sobriquet, along with his 
 physiological peculiarities, lent him the air of an 
 Irishman, which part he tried his best to live up 
 to. " Give us the history of the society man on 
 the desert." 
 
 " Haven't seen him in a long while," replied 
 165 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 White, " not since the middle of December. He 
 lives only a few miles from here too, but I haven't 
 got to it, haven't felt like it, and that's a fact. I 
 didn't like to think of his living alone on the 
 desert and urged him the last time I was there 
 to move his outfit to our camping place here, but 
 I couldn't prevail on him. He looked pretty 
 homesick too, but wouldn't admit it." 
 
 " Let's go and see him this afternoon," pro- 
 posed Fillmore. " I liked him first-rate, what I 
 saw of him. I've nothing on for this afternoon, 
 and would like to take a ride." 
 
 "All right, Filly," assented White. "It'll 
 cheer him up, and we may be able to persuade him 
 to move his tent here. Any one would get home- 
 sick living all alone that way. The little he earns 
 packing oranges isn't worth while. He's not fit 
 to work anyway." 
 
 " I saw him in town once last winter," volun- 
 teered another. " He was togged up to go to 
 some society affair. I told him then to cut it 
 out." 
 
 11 1 wish he would come here," reiterated White. 
 " The poor fellow will die of loneliness there. 
 He works a couple of hours, then goes back to his 
 tent and gets a little to eat. In the afternoon it's 
 the same. Toward evening he hikes back to his 
 tent, cooks a little, eats all alone. After he washes 
 1 66 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 his dishes he reads an hour or two, then goes to 
 bed. Sometimes he doesn't see more than one or 
 two persons all day." 
 
 The talk then drifted to other things, but in 
 the afternoon, when the two were jogging along 
 in the old buggy, it was resumed. 
 
 11 What was Blakeslee's occupation back 
 East?" 
 
 " Line draughtsman in a photo-engraving 
 house," replied White sententiously. " He had 
 a sister depending on him, but she supports her- 
 self now." 
 
 " He sure liked society," remarked Fillmore, 
 occasionally adopting the Western phraseology. 
 " A good-looking fellow like him has things made 
 pleasant for him, you bet, when he's out in com- 
 pany." 
 
 White went on with his narrative. " He has 
 some wealthy relatives, an uncle and cousins, in 
 the East. I've sometimes thought one of the 
 cousins was a sweetheart, but have no reason for 
 thinking so. He was always reticent. Anyhow, 
 letters frequently passed between them, and some- 
 times he seemed quite cast down after receiving 
 one. He used to tell me a little about them, how 
 they were gay, fashionable people, quite wealthy, 
 but living beyond their means. It was the very 
 antithesis of his present life, and the letters may 
 167 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 have called up the former one so vividly as to 
 make him homesick." 
 
 Their way led them a mile or two along rows 
 of cottonwoods on the edge of alfalfa fields. 
 Every little while a bungalow, embowered in 
 China trees with occasional palms interspersed, 
 hove into sight. Further on, ranch and desert 
 alternated, and the road at times took a short cut 
 across a stretch of desert. There was an intensely 
 blue sky overhead, brilliant sunshine bathed the 
 land; on every side the horizon was bounded by 
 mountains. White continued : " The Copelands, 
 the relatives of whom I have been speaking, 
 used to send him newspapers containing items 
 about themselves marked in blue pencil. The 
 items always referred to dinner parties given by 
 them, or to society events at which they figured 
 as guests. I sometimes thought that in exploit- 
 ing their own more fortunate condition, the con- 
 trast presented thereto by their relative's depriva- 
 tions, was not among the least of their motives 
 in remembering him." 
 
 " There are persons who have brought selfish- 
 ness to a fine art. Dilettante in everything else, 
 they become adepts in this." 
 
 A jack-rabbit, caught napping, ran from almost 
 under the horse's feet, fleeing in graceful leaps 
 and bounds from the threatened danger. A stac- 
 168 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 cato whistle from White emphasized the danger 
 and accelerated his speed. When out of gunshot, 
 he came to a halt on a little mound and looked 
 back at them. After a while White went on with 
 his story. 
 
 " Last Christmas they sent him a diamond 
 scarfpin and an edition de luxe of Browning." 
 
 Fillmore laughed. 
 
 11 When I told the fellows in the Camp about 
 it, Micky grinned. ' I catch on to the scarfpin all 
 right, but I don't savvy the other. You'll have 
 to come down to plain United States with me,' he 
 said. 
 
 11 They invited him to their house a good deal, 
 I fancy," went on White. " He's a fine presenta- 
 ble fellow who would do credit to any gathering. 
 But I don't think they know much about his pres- 
 ent circumstances." 
 
 " Or care either," supplemented Fillmore. 
 
 " These people living on the edge of the highest 
 society, lacking the great wealth which would give 
 them the assured position they covet, having no 
 motive in life, or if there is one, it consists in ap- 
 pearing rather than being — are not at all to be en- 
 vied. Give me health, and I wouldn't exchange 
 with any of them," said White with conviction. 
 
 " I'd rather be a cowboy, or as one of these 
 ranchers," said Fillmore, " but it's all a matter 
 169 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 of environment, or rather, it's the way you start 
 in. Let your cowboy or ranchman go to New 
 York to live, and it wouldn't be long before the 
 city would get in its work on him. He would 
 conform to its requirements just as the others do." 
 
 "Never!" cried White. "I can't imagine a 
 cowboy wearing cuffs on his pants or a plug hat ! " 
 
 Fillmore laughed at the fancy. " What do you 
 suppose his old partners would do to him if they 
 ever caught him wearing a plug hat? " 
 
 " Splash it full of lead, I suppose, and yet, the 
 carved leather bands they wear on their own hats 
 are quite as unnecessary and uncalled for." 
 
 " The next improvement in order in our Camp 
 is a dining-room and kitchen. I believe this will 
 come to pass next fall. Think of Alford lying 
 there in his tent, being cared for by other sick 
 people ! " 
 
 " That's better than to be alone, however, as 
 Blakeslee is," said White, whose apprehensions 
 seemed to gather force the nearer he approached 
 his friend. " We must tell him about these 
 changes and improvements to our Camp. It will 
 be an added inducement in getting him to come 
 to us. I'll make him a proposition to the effect 
 that if he'll come to us for the balance of the 
 winter, I'll spend the summer with him wherever 
 he will care to go." 
 
 170 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 "If the dining-room and kitchen are installed, 
 of which there is but little doubt in my mind, the 
 Camp will become a permanent thing," communi- 
 cated Fillmore. " I've heard nothing to that 
 effect, but this is the logical outcome of what has 
 already been done. Then it will grow. There's 
 the nucleus of a fine sociological experiment here. 
 I shall stay right on, and will volunteer my ser- 
 vices. Although I've had no practice, my illness 
 having coming on just after graduation, I can get 
 along with most of the work all right. For that 
 matter, arrangements can be made with a doctor 
 from town to visit the Camp periodically for the 
 first year." 
 
 He paused, and when White had given his 
 assent to the proposition, continued: 
 
 " There should be daily examinations of pulse 
 and temperature so as to combat every symptom 
 as it arises. When a man has a temperature, 
 even if one degree above the normal, he should 
 keep very quiet. He'd best keep to his bed if 
 possible, until it gets back to normal. If it's sub- 
 normal, as is sometimes the case, a moderate 
 amount of exercise is helpful, but this should be 
 carefully watched so as not to overdo it. The 
 body-weight and chest measurement of each should 
 also be taken periodically and records kept of each 
 individual. By frequent examinations, complica- 
 171 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 tions are often avoided, or at least more easily met. 
 Take diabetes for instance, which is an occasional 
 complication of tuberculosis and frequently fatal. 
 A tendency in that direction can sometimes be dis- 
 covered in time to be controlled by suitable diet. 
 In any event, the condition can be ameliorated 
 when discovered early, and the life may thus be 
 prolonged." 
 
 " You speak about suitable diet,' , replied White. 
 " If alimentation, or rather superalimentation, 
 plays such an important part in fighting the dis- 
 ease, and that's a pretty well-established fact, I 
 should think an expert in dietetics would be a most 
 valuable man around a health camp. Have you 
 gone into that any? " 
 
 "In a general way, yes, but only on my own 
 account. I'll get into communication with my old 
 professor in Theory and Practice, and have him 
 outline a course of reading for me on the subject. 
 They seem to put their whole reliance here on 
 climate, but good diet is really of more importance. 
 As has been well said, poor climate with good 
 food is better than a good climate and poor food. 
 Good care throughout is more important than cli- 
 mate. Good care and good climate combined, as 
 in a good health camp, is of course best." 
 
 u The fellow that wins out in this disease," said 
 White, " is the one who can study his own case 
 172 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 intelligently so as to cooperate with his physician. 
 I long ago took up this question of diet, and I think 
 that explains to a great extent why I am getting 
 along so well. Of course the information I've 
 gained on the subject is only relative and approxi- 
 mate. No doubt a fuller knowledge would secure 
 better results. I avoid sweets in general, and 
 starches as much as possible. I masticate my food 
 thoroughly so as to have it well salivated, and 
 try to get the right proportion of proteids and 
 fruits. And I'm careful not to eat too much at 
 any one meal." 
 
 "A frequent complaint of the invalids here- 
 abouts," declared Fillmore, " is that they have 
 a weak stomach. Digestion and assimilation are 
 generally poor in this disease, and in many cases 
 the trouble has been aggravated by medicines. 
 One or two of the invalids in our Camp were 
 almost all in when they came, owing to the creo- 
 sote they had taken. Many abuse their stomachs 
 systematically. When I see the indigestible stuff 
 most invalids eat — starches, hot breads, pastry — 
 it always seems to me, knowing as I do the bad 
 after-effects, like attempting suicide." 
 
 " In the ideal health camp there would be a 
 
 dietitian who would make out the menu for each 
 
 meal," replied White. "Only such food as is 
 
 most easily digested would be offered, and it would 
 
 173 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 be served attractively. There are half a dozen 
 ways of serving raw eggs palatably. I know it is 
 advised always to eat them just as they come from 
 the shell, but some people just can't do it. It's 
 revolting to them, especially at first. In such a 
 case it's better to beat them and combine them 
 with other things; and so it would be with every- 
 thing else on the list. It could be managed, too, 
 that the meals be eaten slowly. An hour to a 
 dinner or supper would not be too much. It is 
 a common matter to take an hour or more at din- 
 ner at hotels." 
 
 " A hospital with a trained nurse in charge, is 
 also one of the essentials of a health camp," 
 offered Fillmore. " This was demonstrated at the 
 time that young Latimer was stricken with the 
 hemorrhage, and Alford sick abed at the same 
 time. It need be nothing pretentious. A build- 
 ing like the casino, with two or three small rooms 
 off it — an operating room, a nurse's room, and a 
 small laboratory — would be sufficient. Hemor- 
 rhagic cases in particular would do much better 
 in a hospital ward where a nurse could always be 
 at hand. This applies also to temperature cases. 
 The tedium of lying in bed would be greatly obvi- 
 ated in a ward where there were a number of 
 people." 
 
 " What are young Latimer's chances for re- 
 174 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 covery? Does he make a good patient? In pass- 
 ing his tent yesterday afternoon, I heard him 
 whistling softly to himself, and concluded that it 
 was about time for him to be getting impatient; 
 he's stood it pretty well so far, but time must 
 hang heavily on his hands, so I got a volume of 
 Bret Harte and read Christmas at Sandy Bar to 
 him. He had been over this ground with his 
 father and Carlyle, on trips to the Yosemite Val- 
 ley, and he described to me the long hill over 
 which Dick Bullen rode that Christmas eve on his 
 way to Sandy Bar for the toys. They camped 
 over night once in a cluster of pines just outside 
 Sandy Bar, and while there, his father told them 
 the story." 
 
 " He's sure getting impatient," replied Fill- 
 more. " Carlyle'll have his hands full pretty 
 soon, keeping him in bed. He ought to lie still 
 for some weeks longer. If some of the girls that 
 used to come here, would call on him occasionally, 
 he'd be more tractable. He has a chance for pull- 
 ing through if he does the right thing, but such an 
 occurrence sets back recovery at least a year. This 
 may teach him to be more careful." 
 
 11 Oh, he'll be careful enough now, for a while ! 
 Carlyle'll see to that. The time of greatest dan- 
 ger for the consumptive is when he is recovering. 
 When he begins to feel well, he thinks he is well, 
 
 *75 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 and then he wants to put the matter to the test. 
 He begins with small excesses, and if no harm re- 
 sults, he increases them. The first thing he knows 
 he's down again. Eternal vigilance is the price 
 of health." 
 
 " Carlyle'll keep him straight if any one can." 
 
 " Yes, but I don't envy him his job," rejoined 
 White. 
 
 " Carlyle seems to want to force the issue and 
 keep him alive, even against fate. Percy is not 
 the kind to take care of himself. If he does pull 
 through, it will be because Carlyle wants to keep 
 him bad enough to be willing to make sacrifices 
 to that end. Logically, it's young Latimer's fate 
 to die, since he hasn't the faculty of taking care 
 of himself," said Fillmore. 
 
 " In a world like this, though, few could be 
 found willing to make the sacrifice." 
 
 14 It's literally a fight with death on Carlyle's 
 part. He seems to want to keep him alive at any 
 cost." 
 
 They passed a tent, the only one in sight. A 
 ranch-house lay an eighth of a mile distant, across 
 two fields fenced with barbed wire. A solitary 
 woman, a health-seeker from the East, was en- 
 camped here by the roadside. She got her water 
 from an irrigating ditch near by, and the stage 
 brought her her supplies and mail. The friends 
 176 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 in passing heaved a silent prayer, or what was 
 equivalent to it, for her recovery and restoration 
 to home and kindred. 
 
 White mused on the difficulties by which some 
 people are surrounded, and, thinking thus, a pic- 
 ture of this woman's plight rose before his mental 
 vision. What must have been her state of mind 
 previously, to render this mode of life endurable? 
 After a while he spoke : 
 
 " The unkindness that we human beings permit 
 ourselves toward one another, is the most un- 
 accountable thing in this paradoxical world. How 
 much better the situation for each in a Camp like 
 ours even, and it can hardly be called a camp as 
 yet it is such an embryonic affair. Yet this woman 
 would be much better off there, than living here 
 all alone." 
 
 " She probably did not know what to do, and 
 after worrying herself half sick, some ranchman 
 or drayman may have located her. I've heard of 
 such cases," said Fillmore. 
 
 A road-runner directly in front diverted their 
 attention from the subject in hand. They watched 
 him speeding along, wings, tail and feet working 
 in conjunction as if created solely for the purpose 
 of getting swiftly over the ground. 
 
 " Another advantage of an organized camp — 
 a great one, is the discipline that can be incul- 
 177 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 cated," he continued. " This will settle the ques- 
 tion of spitting about, which some still practice in 
 our Camp. They won't do it when they find that 
 it will mean dismissal. Its importance can be in- 
 sisted on so strongly as to lead any one to report 
 a violation of it, as is the case in the sanatoriums. 
 When people once fully comprehend the fact in 
 all its significance, that the disease is perpetuated 
 only through the sputum, and that the sick are 
 in danger of reinfection by it, each one will feel 
 like doing police service in the matter." 
 
 Their way led them for another mile through 
 a sandy road bordered by greasewood, which shut 
 in their view. When their destination finally 
 emerged into view, on turning a corner, White 
 was startled to find that Blakeslee's tent was no- 
 where to be seen. He knew the exact location 
 where it had been pitched; its removal seemed 
 ominous; he felt a sudden constriction in the 
 throat. He knew that he had not acted right 
 toward his old partner. He had conditionally 
 agreed to come out to the desert with him when 
 the subject was first broached, but had afterward 
 changed his mind, fearing the loneliness that must 
 ensue from living so far from others. He had 
 endeavored to dissuade Blakeslee from going also, 
 but without avail, and he felt like a delinquent 
 thereafter whenever he thought of his part in the 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 affair. He had justified himself by saying that 
 both were equally at fault, if there was any fault; 
 that Blakeslee should not have persisted in going 
 out there alone after he (White) had decided not 
 to accompany him; but his arguments had not 
 been convincing. The disappearance of the tent 
 caused these misgivings to rise again with renewed 
 force. A presentiment of coming trouble rose up 
 before him; he drove on to the ranch-house in a 
 tumult, his heart knocking against his ribs. 
 
 When he found the ranchman, he asked a ques- 
 tion and made a statement all in one. 
 
 11 1 see Blakeslee has moved. Where's he gone 
 to?" 
 
 The ranchman looked at him, but did not im- 
 mediately answer. After a little, he said: 
 
 " Won't you come in? Come in and sit down." 
 
 The friends got out of the buggy, and sat on 
 the steps of the house. The man's silence and 
 deliberation seemed like a portent. 
 
 u You were a friend of his I think? I've seen 
 you here." 
 
 White nodded. " Where's he gone to? " His 
 voice was husky, his tongue parched. 
 
 " He died a week ago. He had a set-back and 
 
 did not come to the packing house one day, so I 
 
 went to his tent. He located it at a distance from 
 
 the house so as to be away from irrigated land. 
 
 179 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 I found him in bed with a high temperature. I 
 got a friend to help nurse him, and also sent for a 
 doctor, but he died the next day. I looked over 
 his letters so as to get the address of his relatives. 
 Here is one signed ' Uncle James/ and there are 
 others from his cousins." 
 
 White recognized the handwriting on the en- 
 velopes. Blakeslee's relatives always wrote out 
 his full name in addressing him, Mr. Sandford 
 Pinkerton Blakeslee. He mechanically removed 
 one from its cover. It was from the cousin and 
 read as follows: 
 
 Dear Sandy: 
 
 Why don't you hurry and get well, you bad boy! You 
 don't know what an amount of enjoyment you are depriving 
 me of by your wilfulness. There never was such a waltzer as 
 you, at least there never has been one who could keep step with 
 me as you can. We have all missed you so much this winter 
 even more than last. I have gone out a good deal more this 
 winter than ever before, and am so used up that we have just 
 got to go to Palm Beach to recuperate. I have two functions 
 on for this evening, and here it is already six, and I am still in 
 walking costume. You'll excuse me from writing any more, 
 won't you, dear boy? 
 
 With oceans of cousinly love, 
 
 Yours, 
 Kitty. 
 
 P. S. — Papa says if I don't call a halt, I may have to go to 
 Arizona too. Fancy me in a tent with a maid ! 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 He read another from Cousin Walter: 
 
 Timiskaming, Ontario. 
 Dear Sandford: 
 
 I wish you might be with us here in the depths of a Cana- 
 dian winter. Bainbridge and Winslow are with me, and you 
 would have filled up the party nicely. It's great sport. I 
 spend hours on snow-shoes, and come into Camp with a four- 
 story appetite. But snow-shoeing requires more strength than 
 you could probably muster. I intended sending you some 
 novels, but was so busy getting ready for the trip, that it slipped 
 my mind. I trust Kitty, who is starting for Palm Beach, will 
 have sent them. 
 
 Sorry, old boy, that you have to be sick. I suppose 
 you're lonely too. Hurry up and get well. We want you 
 back. 
 
 Then followed a description of a bachelor sup- 
 per given by him at Sherry's, the cost of which 
 would have defrayed Blakeslee's expenses in Ari- 
 zona for the past six months. 
 
 II Your name is White, I believe," offered their 
 host. " I think you were here with Blakeslee when 
 he first came." 
 
 On White answering in the affirmative, he pro- 
 duced a water-color of the mountain which had 
 evidently been done by Blakeslee. On the back 
 had been scribbled, " For White." 
 
 " No man ought to live alone this way," said 
 White, when they were again in the buggy, as they 
 181 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 drove by the place where Blakeslee had camped. 
 " They eat out their hearts in loneliness and 
 homesickness. Had Blakeslee lived in a Camp 
 like ours, he would have had a good chance for 
 recovery." 
 
 The afternoon was wearing to its close. The 
 shadow of the mountain lay across their path. It 
 began to grow chill. 
 
 When they reached Camp again, the drive 
 thither having been made almost in silence, the 
 others, who knew where they had been, made no 
 inquiries in regard to Blakeslee. They divined 
 the truth from the reticence of White and Fill- 
 more, and the subject was not alluded to in the 
 Camp. 
 
 182 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 " TJ OW'S your book getting on, White? " 
 
 O " I'm only in the fourth Chapter, 
 
 and have come to a standstill." 
 
 11 How's that? I thought you'd have it most 
 done by this time." 
 
 The first speaker was a friend of White's whom 
 he had known in boyhood. Later his family had 
 moved to another city, and White had not seen 
 him again until they met in Arizona. His name 
 was Robert Fullerton. He was the senior by 
 several years, White's precocity having led him 
 generally to associate with boys older than him- 
 self. He had come to the territory some years 
 previously, and was engaged in mining. He lived 
 at a camp some thirty miles in the interior, mak- 
 ing periodic visits to town and usually looked up 
 White on these occasions. They chanced to meet 
 that morning, and Fullerton, intending to stay a 
 day or two in town had agreed to return to the 
 Camp with White for the day. They were walk- 
 ing about town now seeing the sights, which never 
 failed to interest the miner. 
 
 "What's the trouble?" Miners are usually 
 183 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 laconic. They spend so much of their time alone 
 that speech, even when they have the opportunity 
 of exercising it, seems something too precious to 
 be used lightly. They make good listeners. Ful- 
 lerton enjoyed these confabs, but not more so than 
 White, to whom an audience was one of the essen- 
 tials of life. " What's the trouble? " 
 
 " I don't know whether to kill the villain, really 
 one of my strongest characters, or let him live 
 and make a hero out of him. He's good stuff all 
 right but he won't do for the part he's cast for." 
 
 " It's the low-down town-sharp you described 
 when telling me about the book the last time I 
 saw you, isn't it? He was too no-account to cast 
 a shadow you said. You were going to lam him 
 most generous." 
 
 Fullerton, who had read a great deal and was a 
 man of some education (there were several col- 
 lege men in his Camp) was wont to adopt the 
 picturesque style of language usually put into the 
 mouths of cow-boys and miners in the books on 
 the Southwest he met with, when talking to East- 
 ern people. It pleased them, they evidently ex- 
 pected it, and he took pleasure in the thought that 
 he was able thus to contribute to their enjoyment. 
 He liked too, to exercise his wits in this way; it 
 showed versatility. In his thoughts, and out at 
 the Camp among his fellows, the language seemed 
 184 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 no different from that in use everywhere in the 
 East. He learned from his books on the West 
 how to make his speech lurid, so as to come up 
 to the expectations that he felt were formed of 
 him by the tourists and invalids. His sense of 
 humor was a well-developed one, although not 
 readily apparent to others at the beginning. That 
 White was often in doubt whether or not to take 
 him seriously for the time being, will indicate how 
 well he performed his self-imposed task. 
 
 " You were drawing the character from life? " 
 
 White nodded an affirmative. " The story was 
 to have been written around some one I know, and 
 was in fact, inspired by him. He was to have 
 been a bigamist," went on White, warming up to 
 his theme, " and his position becoming untenable, 
 was to rob his grandmother of her all, fasten the 
 crime on one of the family, forge some checks, and 
 flee to Arizona hiding in a lunger's camp, where 
 he was to pretend to be an invalid. " 
 
 11 And you, as the hero, were going to show him 
 up some? " 
 
 White gave a qualified assent to this proposi- 
 tion. " He was a good, strong character. I'll 
 have to try and change it to a Mexican bandit 
 story," continued White, looking toward the 
 South, where the mountains of Mexico lay bathed 
 in sunshine. 
 
 i8 5 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 " He was sure an out and outer. But why 
 can't you go on with it ? You've been mistaken in 
 his play? " 
 
 " He's come to the end of his usefulness as a 
 villain," replied White with simulated plaintive- 
 ness. " I can't do anything with him on this line. 
 He's disappointed me. He just won't do." 
 
 " These city scouts sometimes are all right, but 
 you've got to watch 'em on the start until you 
 know their play. I've never had much to do with 
 them myself, but some of 'em seem decent enough 
 chaps. There was one here all last winter, a 
 lunger, dealing faro. Never let his sister back 
 East know he was sick even; he was sending her 
 money to live on and didn't want her to worry. 
 She got some money ahead and toward spring, 
 came out here to surprise him with a visit. She 
 hadn't seen him since he left for California, three 
 years before." 
 
 " He was surprised, I'll bet! " 
 
 " Both of 'em were ; and the worst of it was he 
 was about all in when she got here. The close 
 confinement and bad air had been telling on him, 
 and he only lived a few weeks longer. He had 
 a life insurance of a thousand or two which he 
 left her. When he received her telegram ask- 
 ing him to meet her on arrival of the train, he 
 gave up his job, so as to prevent her learning of 
 186 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 the work he was doing, and made arrangements 
 to leave town with her the same day, saying the 
 doctor had advised a change of climate. He took 
 her to Tucson where he wasn't known. He died 
 there." 
 
 A group of Indians slouched along by them, 
 the bucks wearing their hair in long braids down 
 their backs, the squaws smartened with bits of 
 bright color on their faces arranged in geometrical 
 lines on the cheek, from the mouth half-way to 
 the ear. The Arizona squaw doesn't spend much 
 money on clothes, but when it comes to paint, she 
 understands its decorative value as much as does 
 her civilized sister, however differently she applies 
 it. White stooped to pat an urchin, but the child, 
 divining his intention, slid adroitly to the other 
 side out of reach, with the instinct of the wild 
 thing to fight shy of man. 
 
 " Going back East this summer? You haven't 
 been East since you first came here, have you? 
 Seems to me you don't go much on the mother, 
 home and heaven question." 
 
 44 No," responded White, " I'm going to try 
 to stand it here again this summer." 
 
 44 It's hotter than Tophet down here in the val- 
 ley in July and August. Better go up to Prescott 
 again." Fullerton spoke from an extended ex- 
 perience. 
 
 i8 7 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 " I'd like to go to California," said White wist- 
 fully, " but it is so far. You can camp there in 
 summer much better than here, as there's no 
 rain or dew to contend with. It's cooler too. 
 California's the lunger's paradise in summer." 
 
 Fullerton was immediately interested. " That's 
 so. California would be the place. The Ojai 
 Valley say, somewhere near Nordhoff. I camped 
 there for a few weeks one summer." 
 
 " Rather too near the coast for me," objected 
 White. " Or for any invalid for that matter. 
 The fogs come in from the ocean and make it 
 damp. Dry air's the thing." 
 
 " I've prospected some over the Mojave desert 
 but you might as well stay here as to go there. 
 It's sure hot on the Mojave." 
 
 " The Santa Clara Valley, or even the San 
 Joaquin Valley, would be best," remarked White. 
 " It may be hot right in the middle of the day 
 there, but it's pleasant enough at all other times. 
 And the nights are a delight." 
 
 They were walking along the main street. As 
 they passed a department store Fullerton paused 
 and said: 
 
 " I've got to get something here. If you've 
 anything else to attend to, I'll meet you some- 
 where." 
 
 White, noticing Fullerton's evident desire to 
 188 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 get rid of him, assured him that he had attended 
 to all his matters before meeting him, that he 
 was in no hurry, and that he could give him all 
 his time for the rest of the day if need be. So 
 they entered the store together. 
 
 A round-up of the articles required was effected 
 by the aid of the floor-walker, but they were not 
 such as miners usually take with them into the 
 desert. Germantown wool, cretonne, sewing-silk 
 in two colors to match samples — " What in thun- 
 der," thought White, " can he want with this 
 gear?" He felt that he was on the eve of an 
 interesting disclosure. When they came out, the 
 miner heaved a sigh of relief, wiped the perspira- 
 tion from a clammy brow and proceeded to ex- 
 plain. 
 
 11 Berkely's sister is at the Camp. You met him 
 once in town here with me." 
 
 White nodded. Then he said interrogatively, 
 "Lungs?" 
 
 " Yes. She was in a bad way, and had to come 
 out at once as soon as she was able to travel. She 
 had an attack of pneumonia." 
 
 u But she's the only woman in the Camp, isn't 
 she? How many men are there? " 
 
 " About a dozen," he replied, answering the 
 easiest question first. u She was the only woman 
 in the Camp when she came, and we had to ship 
 189 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 one in order to be able to say that much even; 
 but there are several there now, and they're all 
 right too." 
 
 " The plot thickens," said White. " Tell me 
 about it." 
 
 " Well, it was this way. One of the boys, Mid- 
 dleton, had a woman in his cabin that he wasn't 
 married to. As soon as we heard that Miss 
 Berkely was coming out, we told him that she 
 would have to vamose, get absent, hit the trail 
 back." 
 
 " Wasn't that the ' Gazelle ' you told me about 
 once ? " 
 
 " The same. She was a Mexican, but that was 
 her name when Middleton got her. It must have 
 been ladled out to her by an earlier admirer," 
 said Fullerton, lapsing into facetiousness. " She's 
 some too stout now to fit the part. It wasn't any 
 of our concern before, but when we knew that a 
 sure good woman was coming to the Camp, we 
 made things plain to him right away, you bet! " 
 
 " Didn't he put up a kick? " 
 
 "Kick? No! he didn't kick, not a little bit. 
 He knew what he was up against. Kicking would 
 have helped him none. He knew the temper of 
 the boys. You see they were all in love with 
 Berkely's sister, long before we knew she was 
 coming, just from seeing her picture. We had 
 190 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 got into the habit of going into his tent evenings 
 to pass the time, slinging yarns, the boys called 
 it. There were three photos of her, each differ- 
 ent. We never could tell which we liked best." 
 
 In the interest which the subject evoked, he 
 was becoming loquacious. It was as if the femi- 
 ninity which had of late come into his life had 
 acted as a lubricant to his speech. 
 
 11 Middleton didn't kick," continued Fullerton, 
 " but he tried to compromise — asked us if it would 
 be all right if he'd marry the woman, but we told 
 
 him No ! by fifty marriages wouldn't make 
 
 her fit to associate with Miss Berkely. We 
 wouldn't stand for it no how." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 11 Then he said as long as the boys were going 
 to make a Sunday-school out of the Camp, they 
 had better buy his shares and he would get out. 
 He acted white by his Gazelle all right; he's a 
 sure man all through." 
 
 "Which they did, I suppose?" 
 
 M You bet ! And it didn't take them long to 
 make up their minds either. We made him a good 
 offer, which he promptly accepted. It took a few 
 days to raise the money, after which he and the 
 Gazelle hit the trail for town. When he left, he 
 said that he would like to do something for the 
 Camp in recognition of the many pleasant hours 
 191 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 he had spent there, and that if we would agree 
 to set up a gospel-shop he would leave his tent 
 and furniture as a home for the sky-scout. He 
 has written several times since, offering sugges- 
 tions for the ' work ' as he calls it." 
 
 Fullerton began fumbling in his pockets and 
 finally produced a letter which he handed to his 
 friend. It was as follows: 
 
 Cananea, Feb. 12th, 19 — 
 To Robr. Fullerton, Esq^, 
 
 Bowlegs Mine, Arizona. 
 Friend Fullerton: I am somewhat disappointed, but not 
 surprised, that the friendly interest I take in Old Camp Bow- 
 legs, the scene of my early struggles, should be so little appreci- 
 ated. I shall not let this discourage me however. When I 
 get a new idea, I'll write you about it, even though I get no 
 response. In my last letter I asked you to get a kodak and 
 send me some pictures of the Camp as it now appears. How's 
 the Sunday-school getting along ? If started, you can draw on 
 me for #100 to boost it along. 
 
 Always your friend and well-wisher, 
 
 M. 
 
 "It's a cooperative company, isn't it?" was 
 White's next remark. 
 
 " In a measure, yes," was the reply. " Al- 
 though all the members of the Camp are not 
 stockholders, each shares to some extent in the 
 profits above the wages paid. Should one be dis- 
 satisfied and want to leave, as in the case of Mid- 
 192 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 dleton, the others buy him out. The Camp would 
 forge ahead if we'd take in outside capital to 
 develop it, but we're doing well enough as it is." 
 
 " Didn't you say there were other women in 
 the Camp?" 
 
 " Yes. It seemed to us that it would be play- 
 ing it pretty low-down mean on a fine girl like 
 Miss Berkely to expect her to live in a miner's 
 Camp thirty miles from town and be the only 
 woman there, so we held a meeting after we got 
 Middleton's matter off our hands to see what 
 could be done." 
 
 White looked his approval. 
 
 " You see, Berkely was not there to see our 
 play, so we were free to act as we saw fit. As 
 soon as he got his sister's letter he telegraphed 
 her to start at once, and he would meet her in 
 Chicago. From the time he left, all work on the 
 mine was stopped until we got things rounded up 
 for her arrival." 
 
 11 He's a civil engineer, isn't he? " 
 
 " Yes, and he's done more for the Camp than 
 any one there. He might have owned it all, in- 
 stead of making it cooperative if he had wanted 
 to play a smart game." 
 
 White knew the circumstances of the inception of 
 the Bowlegs mine. Fullerton had told him the 
 story on a previous occasion; how two others be- 
 193 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 sides Berkely and himself had been working at the 
 Tomcat mine on wages ; how they had made several 
 prospecting trips by ones and twos; how the four 
 had from the start decided to pool their issues, 
 saying this would be the squarest way to play the 
 game ; how finally two were maintained in the field 
 prospecting, alternating with two that remained 
 at work, the wages of the two who worked, having 
 been sufficient to keep the four. He remembered 
 too, the circumstances of the strike; how just be- 
 fore, meeting with no success, they had practically 
 dissolved the pool, against Berkely's wishes, upon 
 which he had decided to go back East. He re- 
 membered the particularity with which Fullerton 
 had told him how Berkely, while packing, had 
 bethought him of a spot that had on a previous 
 prospecting trip looked promising, but had been 
 passed over with a cursory examination, his part- 
 ner having seen something elsewhere that seemed 
 better. On leaving, he had resolved to come 
 again and look over the ground more thoroughly, 
 but had not done so; and this unkept resolution 
 had recurred to him while packing his trunk. He 
 felt impelled to give the place the " try " that was 
 coming to it, Fullerton had said, and, obeying an 
 irresistible impulse, had dropped his packing and 
 started out on the desert alone with only his pack 
 mule and an Indian boy. 
 194 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Of his find, of how he at once went through the 
 legal formalities which made him sole owner, of 
 how, on his return to Camp, he brought with him 
 the papers making the three others equal partners 
 with him in the mine, the same as if the pool had 
 not been dissolved, saying there would be enough 
 for all — of this Fullerton had also spoken. 
 
 " You haven't told me yet about the other 
 women. How did you manage that?" 
 
 " I'm coming to it. When I raised the question 
 about how to get any respectable women to come 
 to the Camp it was a poser you bet. We felt 
 that we were up against it for sure this time. 
 
 " ' Ain't any of you fellows got sisters that 
 could be induced to come out?' said I after we 
 had been discussing the matter a full half-hour. 
 * We could let them share equally in the profits.' 
 I waited for a response but it wasn't forthcoming. 
 After a while Dick Wales spoke up. You don't 
 know Dick, do you ? " 
 
 White shook his head. 
 
 " He's a Columbia man. He came here for 
 his health a year or two after graduating. He 
 had been in a sanatorium in the East, and came 
 here to hustle the case along. That's Dick all 
 through. He's so well cured now that he some- 
 times forgets he ever was a lunger. He could 
 live in the East if he wanted to, but he has a 
 195 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 good thing in the mine, and, anyway, he likes the 
 life." 
 
 " And Dick had ready counsel, I suppose," 
 offered White. 
 
 " Not at first. He said it was a proposition 
 that he wouldn't want to put to his sister, she not 
 being an idiot; that no woman would be willing 
 to get very far from a department store, and that 
 while his sister always signed her letters * Yours 
 lovingly,' or ' Yours affectionately,' he wouldn't 
 test her love and affection to such an extent as to 
 ask her to come to a camp like Bowlegs, thirty 
 miles from anywhere. The proposition didn't 
 meet with much favor from any quarter, and we 
 didn't know what to do. Then Dick took the 
 floor in parliamentary style. He likes his little 
 joke, and somehow, I began to feel uncomfortable 
 as soon as he got up. ■ Why can't some of you 
 fellows marry? ' was his remark. Then he looked 
 straight at me and said : * I propose that our hon- 
 orable Chairman, who is older and wiser than 
 most of us here, and who started the discussion 
 in the first place, set us an example and be the first 
 to put his head in the noose.' " 
 
 11 People don't marry out of hand this way," 
 said Fullerton retrospectively. " It's a proposi- 
 tion that both sides ought to consider well first." 
 
 " That's so," murmured White. 
 196 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Fullerton continued : " There was harder buck- 
 ing and more of it, more rearing and pawing on 
 the marrying proposition than on the first one. 
 After it had lasted a while, Dick began to get 
 sensible. * There are many women,' he said, * that 
 come here for their health in the same way that 
 Berkely's sister is coming. You can see them 
 camping all alone along the roadsides near town. 
 I suppose many of them are scant of money, too. 
 We might get a few of them to come out here 
 and live in the Camp. They'd probably be glad 
 of the opportunity. Berkely is well known in 
 town, and his sister's presence in Camp will make 
 it all right for the others. They can stay here 
 free of charge, and we can get a Chinaman to cook 
 for them. I know of a young doctor too who 
 would come under the circumstances.' " 
 
 " Compared with the other proposition, this one 
 of Dick's was a stroke of genius," commended 
 White. " There are lots of women that would 
 be glad of the chance. Did you have everything 
 in good shape when Berkely came with his sister? " 
 
 " He left her in town with some friends and 
 came alone. He didn't know anything about what 
 we had done, and thought he had better trail on 
 ahead and reconnoitre." 
 
 " He was surprised, I bet," said White, think- 
 ing that he would like to go there himself on a 
 197 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 visit. His friend had several times asked him 
 to visit the Camp, but heretofore White had ex- 
 cused himself on the ground of the hardship of 
 the trip. 
 
 " You can bet he was surprised. We had 
 changed the Camp so that he didn't know it. We 
 held all the cards and did the thing up right! 
 We had put up five new tent-houses in a group, 
 near Berkely's tent. One of these is used as a 
 kitchen. The dining-room is out of doors, with 
 a fly overhead for protection from the sun. Dick 
 had gone into town, and brought the young doctor 
 along with him. He is a lunger himself and 
 knew all the ropes. The tent-houses for the ladies 
 are furnished with everything that a sure enough 
 lady would want, even to rocking-chairs and strips 
 of carpet before the beds. We bought china 
 dishes for them to eat out of, and silver spoons 
 and forks, and there are books and magazines 
 a-plenty. Dick attended to it mostly, and he did 
 it up slick, you bet! He's a hustler from way 
 back." 
 
 " Then they all came out together? " 
 " No, Berkely went back to town the next day. 
 He and his sister called on the ladies who had 
 arranged to come. They were not quite ready to 
 go yet, however, and as Berkely was needed at 
 the mine, he returned the following day, taking 
 198 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 his sister with him. The others came on a few 
 days later with the physician. They are feeling 
 so well now that they are doing some work. Two 
 of them are occupying one tent, and the one that 
 was vacated is fitted up with a cook-stove and 
 some utensils, and they make desserts for the boys. 
 Say ! they make apple pie and doughnuts like they 
 do in New England! If you'd eaten Chinaman's 
 apple pie for eight years as I have, you'd know 
 what that means. That apple pie and those 
 doughnuts alone more than compensate us for the 
 added expense of the Camp. The boys have 
 started a little garden and have lettuce and radishes 
 growing. We're living high I " 
 
 " We'll come out and visit you before we break 
 Camp," said White. " We'll bring our blankets 
 and sleep on the hay." 
 
 199 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 FOLLOWING close on Fullerton's visit, 
 White and Fillmore started early one 
 morning in a mountain wagon drawn by a team 
 of bronchos, to pay their proposed visit to Camp 
 Bowlegs. 
 
 The season was well advanced. The yearly 
 celebration of Nature had come round again. It 
 was late in May, and in May this land blossoms 
 as the rose. A pageantry of flowers, a very riot 
 of blossoming, accompanied the travelers on their 
 way, as if they had been making a royal progress. 
 The very ditches along the roadsides, decked out 
 in masses of blooms, proclaimed the exuberance of 
 Nature. In the irrigated fields the upspringing 
 alfalfa was in blossom and ready to cut. Stands 
 of bees with hives numbering into the hundreds 
 were to be seen here and there, under the shade 
 of the cottonwoods, on the edges of fields con- 
 venient to the alfalfa blossoms. 
 
 " How did they come to give the Camp such a 
 name as ' Bowlegs ' ? " asked Fillmore. 
 
 " Berkely discovered the mine and named it 
 200 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 after one of his partners," was the reply. " He 
 is a civil engineer, and he had a partner in the 
 same profession who was known as Billy Bowlegs. 
 Billy is as straight on his legs as any one in Camp, 
 but he had been nick-named that some time before 
 and the name stuck to him. Fullerton told me 
 the circumstances." 
 
 " Let's have the story if there is one," proposed 
 Fillmore. 
 
 "There isn't much of one, but I'll tell it, just 
 as it was told me by Fullerton. Billy is an Eng- 
 lishman, and when he came to Arizona was 
 probably no more of a fool than Easterners gen- 
 erally are on arriving. He's a man of good ap- 
 pearance, and his manners are all right too, but 
 this is owing to his Arizona acquaintances, who 
 took him in hand and exhibited a friendly interest 
 in him from the start. He had strolled into a 
 miner's outfitting store one day, and, while wait- 
 ing to be attended to, learned from the talk of two 
 miners who were making some purchases that 
 they intended starting on a prospecting trip the 
 following day. The young Englishman, out for 
 adventure, entered into conversation with them 
 and proposed joining them on their trip. 
 
 " His education began on the following morn- 
 ing, when, a mile or two out, they asked him his 
 name. 
 
 201 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 " Billy produced his card containing a hyphen- 
 ated surname something like ' Elwood-Cholmon- 
 delay.' His given names I forget, but they were 
 also formidable, — ' Hugh Edward de Carteret,' 
 or something that sounded as if taken from a 
 novel. In addition, there were cabalistic letters 
 denoting the societies he belonged to in London 
 and Paris. It was a critical hour for Billy, but 
 he didn't know it. 
 
 " ' I ain't got no cards, stranger,' said the other 
 gravely, * left 'em in my trunk back in town. My 
 name's Lispenard Stewart Boggs, and my partner 
 here is a Knickerbocker. We come from good old 
 Dutch stock you bet. But out on the desert we 
 drop the frills and I'm Boggs, just Boggs, and 
 my partner here is called Nick. You're going 
 to be Billy Bowlegs. We can't have no hyphen- 
 ated surnames in this outfit. It wouldn't do; it 
 would hurt us with the boys.' The disciplinary 
 process must have extended much further, as 
 there's nothing now to distinguish him from the 
 others. He tells the story on himself once in a 
 while." 
 
 " Shouldn't wonder but what his present name 
 is more convenient to have around a mining camp. 
 The other would sure have been a handicap," 
 commented Fillmore. 
 
 " Billy and Berkely, while prospecting, were 
 
 202 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 over the ground together where the mine is, al- 
 though it was not discovered on that trip." 
 
 " How did it come about? " 
 
 " They did not examine it thoroughly the first 
 time. There were good indications, but they had 
 been deceived by similar conditions elsewhere, and 
 they had heard stories about prospects in another 
 quarter which seemed so promising that they felt 
 they were losing time remaining. After they had 
 returned to Camp, the trip having proven fruit- 
 less, Berkely was impelled to go there a second 
 time, and then made the strike. Each member 
 works in some capacity in the mine, and can hold 
 only a pro rata of the stock. On the death of 
 any stockholder his stock lapses. Some meet this 
 by life insurance. If a stockholder becomes dis- 
 satisfied, the others buy him out. As the stock 
 cost them nothing in the first place, they were 
 quite willing to make the arrangement, although 
 at first sight it must appear rather fantastic to a 
 practical man. 
 
 u They employ others, giving them a share in 
 the profits, which pays them well. On the death 
 or retirement of the last stockholder, which will 
 take a long while yet, as they are mostly young 
 men, the mine if not worked out passes to trustees, 
 to be used in humanitarian work." 
 
 They were passing through pastoral scenes 
 203 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 which seemed to suggest an old civilization. It 
 seemed hard to believe that only a generation 
 ago this was desert land over which the Indians 
 roamed in freedom. Peace and plenty seemed 
 written large here. The ranch-houses, with their 
 abundance of shade, their dairies, their fruit 
 orchards, their orange or olive groves, bespoke 
 the means for comfortable living. They passed 
 some eucalyptus trees, the variety of which indi- 
 cated their foreign origin. 
 
 " How much better off these people are than 
 if they lived in cities," moralized White. u Com- 
 pare their mode of living with that of the average 
 business man and his continual rush and hurry: 
 These people have time to live." 
 
 11 Yes," assented Fillmore, " the tendency of 
 the average business man is to overwork himself, 
 with the object before him of getting more money 
 than he can ever use." 
 
 " Business," observed White, in his favorite 
 role of cynic, " as a general thing, consists in 
 gouging your neighbor all he will stand. The 
 relation of a business man to his customer is that 
 of a hunter and his prey." 
 
 " I cannot agree with you at all," rejoined Fill- 
 more. " Without business, the race might perish 
 from off the earth. Of course this is true of farm- 
 ing too, which is also a kind of business. The 
 204 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 occupation most frequently mentioned by the Ro- 
 mans, outside of politics, is farming. In a better 
 state of society, to which I believe we are progress- 
 ing, those professions which deal with human in- 
 firmity, physical or mental, such as medicine and 
 the law, which are now needed because of the 
 ignorance and selfishness of mankind, will become 
 superfluous for the most part. But farming and 
 mercantile business will always be necessary and 
 on that account will always carry a dignity with 
 them unknown to most other occupations." 
 
 " To spend the greater part of your life getting 
 your living, which Thoreau reprobated so much, 
 seems to be peculiarly the fate of the business 
 man. More business men lose health through 
 their occupation than in any other walk in life," 
 affirmed White. 
 
 " It's a fault of the times; there's too much 
 competition," assented Fillmore. " People lose 
 sight of the fact that health bears a more intimate 
 relation to all the affairs of life than money. If 
 people were to show the same anxiety for health 
 that they do for money, the race would greatly 
 improve, morally and physically, in one genera- 
 tion." 
 
 Their road hitherto had led them through a 
 fine ranch country, but now, the last irrigation 
 ditch have been passed and the higher land 
 205 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 reached, above the ditches, to which water could 
 not flow, they were on the desert. Threading 
 their way in among hillocks and mountains, gradu- 
 ally ascending, they soon left all vestige of civili- 
 zation behind, except the roadway, kept open by 
 the occupants of the mining camps on the way. 
 Henceforth, until they returned, there would be 
 no sign of cultivated growth. Cacti, greasewood, 
 sagebrush — of the desert kind, there would be 
 a-plenty, but not so much as a blade of grass to 
 tell of the presence of man. 
 
 They noticed many beautiful little valleys, sun- 
 kissed — sheltered by bulwarks of mountains from 
 the cold winds of the North — which would make 
 ideal sites for health camps. They would be un- 
 inhabitable in summer, but for the winter nothing 
 could be finer. As they entered one such, Fillmore 
 remarked : 
 
 " This could be made a lungers' paradise in 
 winter. Almost surrounded by mountains, there 
 would be little wind, which is the only drawback 
 we have." 
 
 " I'd rather be near town," White remarked, 
 " and put up with a few wind-storms during a 
 winter." 
 
 " Yes, but if the government would take hold 
 of the work, such a valley as this would accommo- 
 date several thousands, which would make a town 
 206 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 of itself. It may sound visionary, but that is what 
 will eventually have to be done. The individual 
 will take the initiative in the work, and when pub- 
 lic opinion is sufficiently aroused to the importance 
 of it, the government will take hold and com- 
 plete it." 
 
 " These little valleys," said the volatile White, 
 " which will probably forever remain worthless for 
 farming purposes, used as health camps might be 
 the means of saving thousands of lives annually." 
 
 " A trolley road will have to be built to connect 
 them with one another and with the outside 
 world," said Fillmore, putting another story to 
 the air-castle in fullest faith that the foundations 
 will be reared in due time. " They'll have to have 
 it so as to get the supplies in, and give the people 
 an opportunity to go back and forth." After a 
 pause he added: " Who would have thought as 
 late as a decade ago, that the government could 
 be induced to take up the irrigation work as it has 
 done. Admirable as this project is, it pales into 
 insignificance when compared with the work we 
 are discussing, in its importance to mankind." 
 
 A wren, emerging from its nest high up among 
 the thorns of the giant saguaro, dashed close to 
 his head as he was speaking, as if in playful query 
 as to his business on the desert. The nest had 
 been skilfully hollowed out among the thorns of 
 207 
 
This Labyrinthine Lite 
 
 this cactus, which here attains a height of fifty 
 feet, and formed a safe refuge for the little 
 creature. 
 
 " When I'm older," said White, apropos of 
 nothing in particular, " I shall devote myself to 
 philosophical writing. Philosophy embodies the 
 highest and best that we can conceive of in litera- 
 ture." Then he began a philippic against fiction, 
 to which the other, seeing an amusing hour ahead, 
 and knowing the advisability of playing your 
 catch before landing it, made but slight response. 
 
 11 Fiction is for youth or early life," went on 
 White oracularly, u when one satisfies oneself 
 with illusions. Youth likes illusions, but mid- 
 dle age wants facts; illusions suffice no longer, 
 something more intime is required, and philoso- 
 phy becomes its resource." 
 
 Fillmore's silence being construed into assent, 
 he went on with an air of finality. " There's 
 nothing deep or lasting about fiction. You are 
 only admitted inside the author's grounds. He 
 lets you look at the outside of his house, admire 
 his gardens, play with his dog, but you do not 
 get beyond the threshold. He sometimes enter- 
 tains you with fireworks, and when you become 
 mutually tired of each other sends you home. In 
 philosophy, if you are capable of the right appre- 
 ciation, you become a bosom friend, the honored 
 208 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 guest of your host, who will share his innermost 
 thought with you." 
 
 " But fiction gives you pictures of real life, 
 while philosophy only relates to the conduct of 
 life. A photograph full of detail is better than 
 a signboard," rejoined Fillmore in rebuttal. 
 
 " All the same," declared White, " I want to 
 try and do something more solid when I grow 
 older. To me, a career like that of Schopenhauer, 
 with sufficient means to live your life as you want 
 to, and with the disposition to live it well — that 
 is something worth while." 
 
 Fillmore, although with a strong personal liking 
 for his companion, was never averse to being en- 
 tertained at his expense. 
 
 " What point of view shall you take when that 
 time comes?" he asked. "Shall you be pessi- 
 mist?" 
 
 " I'm too young for the role as yet, Filly," 
 White replied with easy familiarity. " In youth 
 it's easy to be an optimist. If I were well, life 
 would be a perfect bargain-counter of opportuni- 
 ties. If I had good health, it would be a case of 
 an embarrassment of riches; there would be so 
 many things that would seem easy of attainment 
 that it might puzzle me to come to a decision. 
 
 " But I'm already old enough to see that it's 
 the game, the hunt, that's interesting, the stakes 
 209 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 are secondary. By the time I have attained to a 
 small competency, and this seems not impossible 
 if I can regain my health, I shall probably be well 
 on toward middle age, a period to which pessi- 
 mism seems well adapted." 
 
 " You mean that you start out as an optimist, 
 because you have as yet all your opportunities be- 
 fore you, and that as you gradually exhaust them, 
 extracting the good out of them by the time you 
 reach middle age, you will become pessimistic be- 
 cause of their being exhausted? " 
 
 " I suppose it might narrow down to that," 
 White admitted. " Youth, according to the in- 
 scription on our clock at the High School, ' is the 
 seed-time of life,' and one cannot but be hopeful 
 in seed-time. Lots of things can and do happen 
 between that and harvest, but you don't let that 
 trouble you." 
 
 After a short pause Fillmore answered with 
 slow emphasis. " Fiction influences fifty persons 
 where Philosophy does one. You mentioned 
 Schopenhauer just now. Think of all the people 
 you know, and count up how many you will credit 
 with having read his chief work through. Your 
 thumbs will more than suffice to keep the reckon- 
 ing on." 
 
 White gave a reluctant assent and he continued : 
 
 " Take the novel of Uncle Tom's Cabin, for 
 
 2IO 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 instance, which really brought the political situa- 
 tion to a focus and precipitated the Civil War. 
 Has any philosophical work ever influenced man- 
 kind to anything like such an extent? " 
 
 u But this result was not secured through the 
 deserts of the work," asserted White; " it was the 
 opportuneness of its appearance that brought it 
 about. The book came at the psychological mo- 
 ment to insure its instant acceptance. Had it ap- 
 peared ten years earlier it might have fallen flat. 
 Had its publication been deferred ten or fifteen 
 years, its opportunities might have gone by. Some 
 other solution of the difficulty might have pre- 
 sented itself." 
 
 " So many people are like children," discoursed 
 Fillmore; " their bodies grow up, but their minds 
 remain as in childhood, retaining most of their 
 infantile characteristics. Though the body be 
 forty, the mind accompanying it often seems no 
 more than fourteen, as regards its knowledge. We 
 human beings can best be led by parables as Jesus 
 well knew, or else by suggestion and other Fro- 
 belian methods. Books are a most tangible ex- 
 pression of the intellectual faculty, and we must 
 have all sorts, but the novel will always remain 
 the most assimilable form in which ideas can be 
 conveyed to most people." 
 
 Their road, still ascending, now skirting the 
 211 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 talus at the mountain's foot in a riot of light and 
 color due to the porphyry, the pale green of the 
 cacti gorgeously dressed in blossoms, with the yel- 
 low sunlight streaming over all — anon threading 
 a narrow defile of sombre browns and grays — led 
 them at a sudden turn into a canyon, dark and for- 
 bidding. In the old days of Indian warfare, now 
 forever past, it would have served admirably the 
 purposes of an ambush. Though cooler here than 
 out on the desert, they pressed on with what haste 
 they could, filled with a nameless dread, a sense of 
 loneliness and apprehension, that they felt could 
 not have been accounted for on physical grounds. 
 The silence oppressed them as by a weight; 
 conversation was out of the question. When 
 Fillmore, who was driving, urged on the ponies, 
 his voice sounded hoarse and unnatural. Not 
 until they emerged into the open was their talk 
 resumed. 
 
 " Why don't you abandon your novel and try 
 your hand at a short story? " began Fillmore, the 
 canyon once passed. " This would be more in line 
 with your previous work. You might make a 
 good story about Blakeslee. There is a lot in it 
 that would be effective." 
 
 " But there must be numbers of such deaths 
 each year here, among the thousands that come. 
 I know of several myself. You must have heard 
 212 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 of the cemetery in Los Angeles with the inscrip- 
 tion over the gateway : 
 
 TO THE UNKNOWN DEAD. 
 
 They were mostly consumptives who were lured 
 there in the hope of recovery. No doubt some 
 died of starvation." 
 
 " All the more need of exploiting the situation 
 with the view of getting it remedied. The moral 
 is obvious enough ; they ought not to be here alone, 
 and with scant means, so long as no provision is 
 made for them. Or rather, adequate provision 
 should be made for them, either at their homes 
 or here. They should not be left to perish like 
 dogs." 
 
 11 It may have the elements of a strong story 
 in it," rejoined White, " but I'm afraid the subject 
 would be painful." 
 
 " The fact of its being painful need not bar it. 
 All tragedy is that. How much that is painful, 
 even repulsive, you will find in the newspapers, 
 yet how eagerly they're read. It depends on the 
 telling though. A story with only the one char- 
 acter ! It would naturally be introspective, analyt- 
 ical. The fact of your having known him should 
 enable you to make something realistic out of it. 
 213 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 You must often have made good newspaper stories 
 out of much slenderer material." 
 
 " It would be depressing to me. I would be 
 apt not to spare myself. I feel that some blame 
 attaches to me in the matter. I had conditionally- 
 agreed to go with him. We had been camping 
 together, as you know, all the previous summer 
 and up to the time he went out on the desert. 
 When it came to the point, however, I developed 
 an overpowering dislike to the plan of going so 
 far away from everybody, and tried my best to 
 dissuade him from going too. I believe to the 
 last he thought I would come. I have never felt 
 right about it," concluded White. " I couldn't 
 make copy out of such a thing." 
 
 " To the writer, everything that comes to him 
 — his holiest associations, the death of a child, 
 love, sorrow, remorse — all eventually come to be 
 copy. The Threnody finds an answering chord in 
 thousands of human breasts, and it is likely that 
 Emerson's own grief for the death of his boy was 
 assuaged through writing it." 
 
 But White appeared to be unconvinced. 
 
 " This single character, silhouetted on the 
 imagination, alone on the desert, bereft, troubled 
 in mind and body, is to be pictured as finding a 
 resource in Nature at the last, and must even find 
 compensation," continued Fillmore, knowing that 
 214 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 White liked being urged, that he had already de- 
 cided on writing the story anyway, knowing even 
 that White knew this, both keeping up the by-play, 
 in accordance with the mental characteristics of 
 each. 
 
 " He is alone with Nature. Everything else 
 has been taken from him. It affords fine oppor- 
 tunities for description of mountain and desert. 
 Of this, the half has never been told. Put in at- 
 mosphere — purpling dawns and sea-green sunsets, 
 mirages — everything can be said of Arizona with 
 truth on these lines. It's more paintable so far as 
 word picturing goes, than California. Its mys- 
 ticism takes hold on the imagination. I've some- 
 times thought I could do something myself with 
 the subject. Have you ever met with Chateau- 
 briand's ' Night in an American Forest ' ? A 
 word-picture of the desert at night, — its isolation, 
 its enthralling silence and vastness, — if well done 
 would more than parallel it." 
 
 " But there's no plot," objected White, " and 
 with but the one character, there can be no conver- 
 sation." 
 
 " There's a plot, using the selfishness of the 
 cousins — you remember their letters? as a back- 
 ground. You can hint at the cousin being a 
 coquette, who had been toying with him. But 
 you don't need a plot," said Fillmore, shifting his 
 215 
 
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 ground as the incongruity of it struck him. " It's 
 the descriptive part that comes out strongly in 
 such a story, and this is of more importance than 
 plot or conversation. Conversation's the easiest 
 thing in the world to manufacture. The story can 
 even end happily. A Lafcadio Hearn might have 
 done marvels with it." 
 
 " I could never attempt it," replied White, de- 
 termined to begin it as soon as they returned to 
 Camp. " It would give me a setback. The very 
 thought of him is a reproach." 
 
 11 You'd get over that quick enough once you 
 got started on it. It would ease your mind and 
 might have good results in calling attention to 
 such phases of the tuberculosis problem. Since 
 the fact has been established that the disease is 
 curable as well as communicable and preventable, 
 interest in the subject has been growing steadily 
 among all classes until now it is recognized as one 
 of the very important subjects before the world." 
 
 They passed a clump of candlewood in leaf 
 after the recent rain. Fillmore had not seen it 
 since the rain, and stopped the ponies the better 
 to examine it. After remarking on the curious 
 habit of the candlewood and some other of the 
 desert growths, of putting out leaves only after 
 a rain, withdrawing them as soon as the moisture 
 required for their sustenance has evaporated — a 
 216 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 process which is repeated during the year without 
 reference to season, he continued the conversation 
 where he had broken off. 
 
 11 Government and people will have to work in 
 conjunction in handling the tuberculosis problem," 
 went on Fillmore. " From the point of view of 
 self-protection, if from no higher motive, this will 
 have to be done. While it is the greatest scourge 
 among the diseases which afflict mankind, there is 
 no reason why it should continue to be so as it is 
 readily controllable given the right equipment to 
 cope with it. The most powerful force in the 
 world is public opinion. Anything can be achieved 
 by its aid, and the novel, to come back to our pre- 
 vious topic, is one of the most effective instru- 
 ments by which it can be influenced. You can 
 contribute your mite to the general fund by telling 
 the Blakeslee story." 
 
 " Almost thou persuadest me," replied White, 
 rapidly summing up its salient features, and think- 
 ing how inadequately they had been presented by 
 Fillmore as compared with the picture of it in his 
 own mind. " But I never could do it." 
 
 217 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 HOURLY the sun became more in evidence. 
 Over a third of the distance to the Camp 
 had been covered so far, and men and horses were 
 yet fresh. So far as enduring the fatigue of the 
 trip went, the horses, doing all the work would 
 have by far the best of it. No urging was neces- 
 sary here. Sandy roads, dust, heat — they were 
 inured to all, and would have cause for thankful- 
 ness if they got a mouthful of hay and a drink of 
 water at noon. 
 
 The nooning was made under an overhanging 
 rock which afforded some shelter from the ever- 
 present sun. Patches of greasewood grew at their 
 feet, masses of porphyry fantastically shaped lay 
 all about them. In the midst, all around, loomed 
 up the giant cacti, holding high carnival with 
 scores of large white blossoms at the extremity of 
 their branches. The pale green of the trunks, 
 each so magically decked out in its beauty of form 
 and purity of tone, contrasted finely with the deep 
 blue of the sky above and the red of the porphyry 
 beneath. The desert was fair to look upon. 
 218 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 They partook of their sandwiches and fruit, 
 discoursing as they ate. Their lemonade, pro- 
 tected somewhat from the heat, was to the thirsty 
 travelers fairly palatable, and the slight repast was 
 relished to an extent that a much better meal in 
 the city would not have afforded them. 
 
 They descried with their glasses a vulture sail- 
 ing in stately fashion, leisurely hunting his quarry 
 through valley and over mountain. How content 
 he seemed! With what serenity he sailed the 
 ether as if superior to fate. 
 
 " How picturesquely things arrange them- 
 selves," exclaimed White, to whom conversation 
 was a necessity, " not only in Nature as we see it 
 right here on the desert where everything seems 
 admirable of its kind, but among individuals as 
 well. In our Camp, made up by the accidental 
 gathering together of a dozen people from all 
 quarters of the country, we have quite an inter- 
 esting community; and all without design, from 
 no set purpose. It seems just to have arranged 
 itself, as if some informing spirit in each had di- 
 rected them to a common rendezvous. Each con- 
 tributes his quota to a sum total which is quite 
 unique. 1 ' 
 
 " The infinite variety in Nature is its greatest 
 charm," assented Fillmore. " You can take a 
 dozen men from any large body and put them into 
 219 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 a camp, and the product would be equally original 
 though wholly different from ours." 
 
 " What diversity there is among them. How 
 picturesque the Padre with his gray hair and his 
 youthful face. What a contrast his partner, our 
 little Deacon presents, in his musical setting and 
 his dreamy, vision-gazing air. How decorative 
 they both are, each in his own genre. If it were 
 acting, the make-up of each would be the perfec- 
 tion of art." 
 
 " It's better than art, it's Nature." 
 
 " It's the same through the whole company," 
 continued White, " we're not all so decorative 
 as these two, — there are gradations in everything, 
 — but we have a good ensemble. Even Micky, 
 with his freckles and red hair — his swagger, has 
 his esthetic value. He furnishes color in a double 
 sense." 
 
 " You're as decorative as any of them, White," 
 responded the other. " Don't depreciate yourself. 
 You may not be so good-looking as the Padre; 
 you're too young yet for one thing, but if you're 
 good, you may grow into the part." 
 
 " I don't believe he got his good looks by being 
 good," answered White with a grin. " That gray 
 hair is not due to early piety." 
 
 11 The Padre is quite a different individual even 
 in appearance, from what he was when he first 
 220 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 came here. The desert is good for others than 
 lungers." 
 
 Near by, where they sat, they descried a huge 
 bisnaga or barrel cactus which had been cut off 
 near the top, and the pulp scooped out. It had 
 furnished water for some improvident wayfarer, 
 a prospector probably, whose canteen water had 
 been insufficient. Completely enveloped in spines 
 bent like fishhooks, and as sharp, Nature had 
 armed it cap-a-pie against any animal except man 
 that would seek to invade its central reservoir of 
 water. White, with the inquiring mind of youth, 
 thought he would like to try some of the liquid, 
 and procured an augur from the tool chest, which 
 is part of the outfit on trips into the desert, but 
 the hole that was bored with it yielded nothing 
 but shavings. Then, nothing daunted, he took 
 an axe, cut off the top of one, and soon had what 
 he wanted. 
 
 " You have to go at things in the right way to 
 get results," moralized Fillmore. " It's so in the 
 cure of lungers too. I think the Padre's going 
 at it in the right way." 
 
 "With an axe?" asked White. 
 
 It was time to be moving forward. When again 
 under way, Fillmore began: 
 
 " Don't you think our mode of life out here 
 develops individuality? The desert environment 
 221 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 for one thing, with the solitude which is its neces- 
 sary concomitant. One can expand in all directions 
 like a pine tree in an open space. City life tends 
 to make men of one pattern. Individuality is not 
 desired in the thick of the fight. All must be 
 subordinated to the one common purpose." 
 
 " All the same, if I recover my health I'll go 
 back to it. I hope to be able to make a small 
 competency yet, in spite of everything." 
 
 " Better take up the tuberculosis campaign as 
 a life-work. That's what I shall do. It's one of 
 the great issues of the day. And you're more 
 likely to keep your health too, which is the main 
 thing. Money-making is bad for the health. It 
 sure makes lungers. I shall stay right along in 
 our Camp as I've told you. I'll have my living 
 out of it, and that's as much as any of us need 
 desire. Then too, there are interesting possibili- 
 ties in the work. From a scientific point of view 
 it's fine to think of grappling with a disease like 
 tuberculosis, which may invade any family, and 
 conquering it. And there's a chance for com- 
 munal theories to crystallize. The health camp is 
 communal, if anything." After a pause he went 
 on: " The work of the Camp may in large part 
 come eventually to be carried on by the graduates. 
 In the big Eastern sanatoriums, the opportunity 
 is given the graduates to remain and qualify for 
 222 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 nurses, as well as participate in the farm work. 
 Some of them do so, and the same plan could be 
 inaugurated here. The nurses would be a valu- 
 able addition to the new Camps. Others could 
 combine and operate fruit or dairy ranches, and 
 they would have the strongest reasons for holding 
 together. 
 
 "Life in a health camp such as ours will de- 
 velop into," continued Fillmore, " bears some 
 resemblance to the monastic life. It's a kind of 
 withdrawal from the world and one comes to 
 like it after a while. This is the case in the big 
 Eastern sanatoriums. The regular systematic life 
 suits the occupants, and they leave, when cured, 
 often with real regret, knowing that while there, 
 they are safe, or at least in a measure protected 
 from the many pitfalls that lie in the path of the 
 unwary." 
 
 " The Mirage ! " exclaimed White excitedly. 
 " Look over there. Isn't that a mirage? " 
 
 Shimmering into form they saw this desert mar- 
 vel, which, though not peculiar to the desert, is 
 more associated with it than any other phenom- 
 enon. Held up to view in the blue ether, this 
 picture, fashioned by the cunning of the supreme 
 Artist, held something ineffable in its beauty and 
 mystery to the wayfarers, as it were for their de- 
 lectation alone. 
 
 223 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Slowly, even as they watched it, it faded from 
 view, their eyes probably having been the only 
 ones to behold it. 
 
 " Wealth has grown so rapidly in this country 
 within the past decade; so far beyond the possi- 
 bilities of the individual need in myriads of cases," 
 began Fillmore, harking back to his theme, " that 
 it must come to be the greatest satisfaction of the 
 wealthy to engage in helpful work for others so 
 as to put their surplus to some use. Say what you 
 like, every right-minded person likes to be of bene- 
 fit to others. When they can assure themselves 
 that their money will be well applied, they like 
 to give." 
 
 11 Do you know the history of the Denver 
 Camp ? " asked White. 
 
 " No," replied Fillmore. " I know that there 
 is one there, but that is all I do know about it." 
 
 " It was started in this way," said White narra- 
 tively. " A foreign gentleman, a physician I 
 think, from Germany, had been traveling in this 
 country, and noticed the lamentably inadequate 
 facilities for handling the tuberculosis problem 
 here as compared with his own country. What 
 was hardest for him to understand, and which 
 troubled him after he had returned to his home, 
 was the number of young men, consumptives, that 
 he saw at Denver who appeared to be almost 
 224 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 without means, and for whom no provision had 
 been made." 
 
 " It's about the same here in Arizona right 
 now," interrupted Fillmore, u although in that 
 altitude they may become more nervous, and so 
 magnify their sufferings more; but it's bad enough 
 here." 
 
 " This gentleman," went on White, " with the 
 spectacle of these helpless young men before him, 
 sent five thousand dollars to the Y. M. C. A. at 
 Denver, instructing them to employ it in estab- 
 lishing a health camp for this class of men. Resi- 
 dents of Denver, not to be outdone, contributed 
 land near the city as well as additional money, and 
 the work was put on a good foundation from its 
 incipiency. They take care of fifty young men 
 now, at twenty-five dollars per month each, and 
 there's always a waiting list." 
 
 " Five thousand dollars ! " exclaimed Fillmore, 
 " and from Germany ! Why, dollars are a good 
 deal scarcer and harder come by there than 
 here." 
 
 "All the more credit to him. This was the 
 pioneer effort. Soon after, the Jewish element, 
 generally to the fore in philanthropic work of this 
 kind, followed suit at Denver with a similar camp. 
 There's one in Southern California too, at Indio, 
 and it has the advantage of being at sea-level. 
 225 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 11 When people come to realize the plight of 
 men like us," continued White, " when they find 
 out the need of the work, and the interesting 
 possibilities that it presents in effecting cures, 
 many more such camps will spring up in suitable 
 places." 
 
 " And the good results of the work don't end 
 with the cures effected," averred Fillmore. " Each 
 person who has lived in a health camp or sana- 
 torium for six months or a year, and leaves it 
 with his disease arrested, is forever after a mis- 
 sionary, preaching the gospel of hygienic living. 
 He talks it in season and out. The discipline of 
 the Camp has grown into a habit with him; he 
 believes in it and seeks to propagate it whenever 
 possible. Then too, if there were enough camps 
 and sanatoria so that every invalid, as soon as the 
 fact of the sickness is established, could avail him- 
 self or herself of the means of cure, the principal 
 source of infection would be removed. This, of 
 itself, would at once greatly decrease the number 
 of new cases." 
 
 They stopped at a convenient spot at the foot of 
 a hill, where was a clump of palo verde, resting 
 for a few moments under it, for the slight protec- 
 tion that it afforded from the glare of the sun. 
 One gets but little shade from desert vegetation, 
 and now that the sun was almost directly overhead, 
 226 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 even the trunk of the giant saguaro afforded no 
 relief. Not until they could get into a defile 
 would there be any shade for them. 
 
 " The next time we make a trip into the desert 
 as late in the season as this, we'll either have a 
 covered wagon, or we'll travel by night," began 
 White, when they were again under way. " The 
 umbrella's a little protection but not much. We'll 
 try to return by night. Some one from Bowlegs 
 will probably be coming to town when we're ready 
 to return, and would probably prefer making the 
 trip by night." 
 
 " I should enjoy a night ride on the desert," 
 responded Fillmore, " but I'd want some one 
 along who knew the road." 
 
 The talus of the mountain through which they 
 were passing was here rough and broken. Druid- 
 ical rocks rose up all about. Absolute silence en- 
 veloped them. No sign of living thing was to be 
 seen. 
 
 " This will be a splendid world to live in some 
 time, when people learn how to live," said Fill- 
 more, whiling away the tedium that now and then 
 began to assert itself after they had ridden a mile 
 or two in silence, by starting a conversation on 
 another tack. u We're gradually working toward 
 the goal. Things that are established facts in this 
 generation, seemed too visionary to a previous one 
 227 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 to be considered. Nothing's too good to expect 
 or look forward to." 
 
 " Very true," responded White, " but there was 
 something fine too in the life of the Greeks, in 
 which the intellect ruled, and the pleasures of the 
 senses were, on the whole, subordinate to a greater 
 degree than is the case at present." 
 
 A burned-out camp-fire along the roadside with 
 hay plentifully scattered about, showed where a 
 party of prospectors had recently camped. It 
 gave a human touch to the scene which appealed 
 to the friends. In all the distance they had cov- 
 ered since leaving town they had seen no human 
 being or any vestige of civilization. To be so 
 sundered from humankind in all this vastness and 
 silence awed their spirits. A vision of what it 
 must mean to be lost on the desert, rose up before 
 them, and they were glad of even this evidence 
 of their kind. 
 
 The afternoon wore slowly on, the indomitable 
 ponies toiling on with no more indication of fa- 
 tigue than when they started in the morning. The 
 dust, impalpable, ubiquitous, had settled impar- 
 tially on every portion of the outfit. The visitors 
 would have to make their appearance at the Camp 
 even in this guise, as their water would be all but 
 consumed on the road. 
 
 The heat became oppressive; conversation 
 228 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 lagged. White looked at his watch, — only a little 
 after three. Not until five, could they expect re- 
 lief from the intense heat. Beast or shrub how- 
 ever, seemed any the worse for it. Everything 
 that lives on the desert from man to tree becomes 
 tough, hardy, resistant, abstemious. Each is ad- 
 mirably adapted to its environment. No desert 
 vegetation droops. The blossoms of the giant 
 saguaro, supported by their reservoir of water 
 within, as is the case with all cacti, maintained an 
 appearance of freshness throughout the day. 
 
 Still the sun was omnipresent, overpowering, 
 dominating everything in high-handed manner. 
 The friends began to feel like parts of a machine; 
 all volition seemed gone from them; the strain- 
 ing horses, the slowly moving wagon, they them- 
 selves seemed parts of some phantasmagoria. 
 Luckily the road was well defined; at every inter- 
 section a signboard was placed, so there was no 
 anxiety on the score of finding their way. 
 
 A mirage which suddenly came into view be- 
 fore their eyes gave the needed stimulus. They 
 roused themselves to look at it, and Fillmore got 
 out his camera and made an attempt to photo- 
 graph it. Although he saw it plainly enough on 
 the ground glass, and took all due precautions in 
 getting the negative, the plate was a blank when 
 it came to be developed the next day, thus confirm- 
 229 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 ing what others had told him of their experiences 
 on the same lines. 
 
 Bowlegs Camp was situated on the further edge 
 of a mesa which had to be crossed to reach it. 
 Almost as soon as the travelers descried the group 
 of tents and the few trees which made up the 
 Camp, they noticed a man mounted on a pony 
 cantering toward them. By the aid of their 
 glasses they made him out to be Fullerton, who 
 had been expecting them, and had been on the 
 lookout. With this escort they made their entry 
 into Camp, all the boys (and some of the girls 
 too) turning out to meet them. 
 
 230 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 " 1 ' SHOULD like to have been present when 
 JL Fullerton made his appeal to the boys to 
 have their sisters come on," said Fillmore, while 
 making the tour of the Camp with Dick, on the 
 morning following the arrival of the visitors. 
 They had been discussing the changes that had 
 come over the Camp with the advent of Berkely's 
 sister. " A woman is generally ready and willing 
 to make sacrifices for the men of her family," 
 he went on, " but not for the sisters of the friends 
 of the men of her family," which Ollendorfian 
 bit of logic met with a ready response in Dick's 
 breast, and ended in a loud guffaw. He thought 
 of his sister Clara, self-sufficient, strong-minded; 
 Clara, with her Day Nursery, her Society for the 
 Chloroforming of Friendless Cats, her numberless 
 other activities — and the humor of the situation 
 rose up in him again so that he had to give vent 
 to another roar, in which Fillmore joined, and 
 which brought two or three of the miners to the 
 doors of their tents. 
 
 When he had sobered down a little he said: 
 231 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 " The funniest part of it was that he was in 
 such dead earnest about it. He drew some terri- 
 fying possibilities to the boys. One of them was: 
 1 How would any of you fellows like to live for 
 months in a Camp and be the only man among all 
 women ? ' It was a knock-down argument which 
 brought a hush on the company. Then he clinched 
 the matter by saying : ' It would be as bad for 
 her to be the only woman here, as for one of us 
 to live in a Camp composed entirely of women.' " 
 Dick laughed again; was it from sheer youthful 
 ebullience, or was there some deeper cause? 
 
 He thought again of his sister Clara, recalling 
 her decided opinions on all subjects, including ill- 
 ness. He remembered her strictures on a man 
 with a wife and four children who had been so 
 indiscreet as to be laid up with an attack of rheu- 
 matism. " Positively reprehensible in a man with 
 such responsibilities; he might have prevented it 
 with due precaution," she had said in commenting 
 on it. Clearly, her sympathies did not go out 
 readily to invalids. 
 
 And then he thought of something else that 
 had come into his life, thought of it with his 
 pulses running riot within him, thought of it with 
 wonder that he, Dick, should have been singled 
 out for such happiness, should be so favored of 
 fortune. Poor old Fullerton ! How can he stand 
 232 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 it living alone this way, and with nothing but this 
 to look forward to for the rest of his life! Poor 
 old Fullerton ! and fortunate, fortunate Dick (so 
 ran the corollary in his mind), for had not Nancy, 
 Nancy Berkely, the loveliest girl in all the world, 
 promised to marry him? And this was only 
 three days ago ! To think that he had lived con- 
 tentedly all these years! No, he had not been 
 content. Compared with the present, the years 
 had been barren years, and the life a poor sort 
 of life. And he didn't care what Clara would 
 say ! Yesterday he had written her with a quaking 
 heart, telling her all about it, but in the interval 
 he had already grown independent. With her 
 advanced notions on physiology and the improve- 
 ment of the race she would probably disapprove, 
 but it should not count a feather's weight with 
 him; he had reached a stage where he would have 
 faced an army to carry his point. The race in- 
 deed! As if there were anything in the universe 
 so significant, as that they two lived and loved 
 one another! 
 
 True, Miss Berkely had insisted that the en- 
 gagement be a conditional one, pending her 
 restoration to health, but this was almost certain 
 to come about under the favoring conditions now 
 prevailing. The chances were all in his favor; 
 he need not worry on that score, he told himself. 
 233 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Clearly it was a case of love at first sight — on 
 the part of the susceptible Dick even before a 
 sight of the beloved had been vouchsafed him. 
 Berkely had wired him when taking the train from 
 Chicago with his sister, thereby setting Dick's 
 foolish heart all aflame with love and desire. He 
 told Miss Berkely, Nancy now (adorable name, 
 Nancy!) that the engagement really dated from 
 the receipt of the telegram in his consciousness. 
 How fortunate that he was in town that day, 
 attending to the finishing touches of the improve- 
 ments to the Camp and so got the telegram with- 
 out delay! They were so evidently meant for 
 one another; and then he lauded his intuitions that 
 had so truly apprised him of it, adding that with 
 every mile she was speeding westward he had felt 
 more and more strongly the magnetism of her ap- 
 proach. 
 
 " But we stopped three hours in Kansas City 
 with a hot-box," said Nancy momentarily prac- 
 tical. " How was it then? " 
 
 Dick thought her more adorable than ever. 
 
 Of the endless confidences that came to be ex- 
 changed between them, one fact stood out in inef- 
 faceable, inexpugnable clearness, to wit: that the 
 little god Cupid, in his inscrutable wisdom, had 
 reserved them for each other out of all the people 
 in the world, bringing them here — perhaps having 
 234 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 taken health away temporarily, to the end that 
 they might meet. 
 
 Common sense had indeed tried to butt in on 
 the matter, but had met with a poor reception for 
 its pains. " Common sense indeed ! It's sense of 
 a very uncommon kind that directs you in these 
 matters," thought Dick, " enabling you to ap- 
 proach a happiness like this, bringing you to the 
 very acme of your life with Fortune designing 
 you as her favorite! Common sense, this knave, 
 this liar and trickster that always tries to prevent 
 you from having what you want on the ground 
 of it not being good for you, wanting to keep you 
 from grasping at such an opportunity, as if it 
 would ever be presented again ! To turn your 
 back on this trickster and obey yourself — was not 
 this wisdom of the highest kind? Having gotten 
 your heart's desire, would you barter it for any- 
 thing in creation?" Wise, foolish Dick! 
 
 Dick's proposition to Fullerton about marry- 
 ing, given in jest though it was, opened up the past 
 to the older man in a way that the other could not 
 have remotely suspected. Practical men like Dick 
 are not clairvoyant, and he would never know that 
 he had touched on a sore spot under the quiet 
 demeanor of the older man. As a matter of fact, 
 Fullerton was married. It was through being 
 married that Arizona had him for a sojourner. 
 235 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 He had married when quite young, a girl two 
 years his senior. The marriage lottery had held 
 no prize for him, and within two years matters 
 had come to a climax. 
 
 Fullerton, always passive, would have let mat- 
 ters drift, but his wife, more positive, took the 
 initiative. On the occasion of his absence in an- 
 other city for a week, whither he had been sent 
 by the firm by whom he was employed at the time, 
 she had gathered together the lares and penates, 
 stripping the house of everything and leaving only 
 his wearing-apparel, sending everything to her 
 father's house in a village some thirty miles dis- 
 tant, whither she also went. He returned at night 
 to an empty house, without so much as a note of 
 explanation having been left for him. The humil- 
 iation of it was more than even he could endure; 
 he made no effort at reconciliation, but resigned 
 his position and started for the West, not caring 
 much where he ended up, so that he might put 
 distance between them, and if possible forget the 
 past. 
 
 The letters that came to him from his people 
 gave but meagre information regarding his wife's 
 movements. Her mother had been dead some 
 years before her marriage. She was an only child. 
 Her father, they reported, had disapproved of the 
 step she had taken in leaving her husband, and 
 236 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 probably had not made things pleasant for her. 
 At all events, after the expiration of a few weeks 
 she left him, and returned to the city and her 
 old occupation of stenography. 
 
 This was eight years ago, and nothing definite 
 had come to Fullerton since, regarding her. It 
 was current gossip in the village that she had never 
 communicated with her father after leaving him, 
 and as this was vouched for by the postmistress 
 herself it was generally accepted as truth. Her 
 father had now been dead five years, and this 
 mysterious absence was still maintained. The old 
 mansion on the hill, from which they had 
 been married, now closed and deserted, with 
 all its quaint old furnishings still there, without 
 owner or even caretaker, must be the occasion 
 of much comment in the village he sometimes 
 thought. 
 
 Fullerton had a sister back East, a Mrs. Brad- 
 shawe, who, while not a newsmonger or gossip, 
 was considered fairly good at finding out things 
 of interest. She had been able to gather very little 
 information on this topic, but this little was always 
 dutifully given him in detail, notwithstanding the 
 fact that he never referred to the matter in his 
 letters to her. 
 
 When he returned to his tent that night after 
 Dick had " joshed " him about marrying, he un- 
 237 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 locked a tin box which he kept at the bottom of 
 his trunk, and took out a letter. It read : 
 
 Dear Boy Bobby: 
 
 I have some news about Mr. Cameron which you should 
 know. I don't like to open up the subject of your unfortunate 
 marriage. It's much the best course to forget under the cir- 
 cumstances, but this concerns you. The old gentleman is dead. 
 He died a week ago, and was buried last Thursday. Bobby, 
 that woman never even wore mourning at the funeral. And 
 there were no mourners ! Did you ever hear of such a thing ? 
 To think that you should have run up against such eccentric 
 people. She kept her veil down all during the service and 
 when it was over, left the house without speaking to anyone, 
 and took the next train out of town. 
 
 I am glad to receive your letter, and to know that you have 
 returned safely from that prospecting trip in the mountains. 
 What with the Apaches, and the mountain lions, and the Gila 
 monsters — you see I've been reading up about Arizona — I am 
 in suspense from one letter to the next for fear that you have 
 succumbed to one peril or another. When I think of the way 
 she has served you, driving you to that horrible country, I feel 
 that no punishment could be too great for her. 
 
 Then followed a description of the funeral. 
 
 There was a newspaper clipping from an issue 
 some months subsequent to the date of the letter 
 he had just read. He took it up mechanically 
 and went over its contents. 
 
 Since the death of Hugh Cameron a few months ago, 
 the house on the hill, which he owned and occupied for so 
 many years, has been closed and presents a forlorn appearance. 
 2 3 8 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Nothing has yet transpired in regard to the whereabouts of his 
 daughter, Mrs. Fullerton, whose presence is necessary to the 
 setdement of the estate. From all accounts there is not much 
 of an estate to settle, as it appears he left nothing but the fine 
 old house in which he lived for so many years. It is said, in 
 fact, that he was in straitened circumstances toward the last and, 
 had he lived much longer, would have had to mortgage his 
 house. As it is, the house is free from incumbrance. There 
 is no will, and as his daughter, Mrs. Fullerton, inherits under 
 the law, it is important to find her. Lawyer Edmundston, who 
 had the management of the affairs of the late Mr. Cameron, has 
 caused an advertisement to appear in the city in which she last 
 resided, and it is hoped this will produce the desired result. 
 
 Subsequent letters from his sister were of the 
 same tenor, generally prefaced by a deprecatory 
 clause to the effect that she didn't want to open 
 up the past. They told how the house, being still 
 closed and deserted, would get the reputation of 
 being haunted if this state of things were con- 
 tinued long — how the furnishings and appoint- 
 ments were still intact, the lawyer making occa- 
 sional inspections, how nothing could be done 
 toward disposing of it pending the return of the 
 daughter. The deterioration of the place, the 
 accumulated taxes — money for which the attorney 
 was advancing, the necessity of repairs to keep it 
 intact, all made it necessary that she come forward 
 so that the place could be disposed of, and some 
 remnant of the inheritance saved. 
 239 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 " What she needed," wrote Fullerton's sister in 
 a subsequent letter, " was a strong masterful man, 
 who would have made some things plain to her 
 from the start. You were too passive, too non- 
 resistant; a stronger man might have taken the 
 foolishness out of her, although I don't know as 
 it would have been worth the trouble. She was 
 a spoiled child if there ever was one." 
 
 He sat up late that night musing. In the old 
 life of adventure, he had been fairly content, but 
 all at once the prospect ahead of living alone 
 through the coming years seemed dreary indeed. 
 He began to realize how alone in the world he 
 was; and the one great need of the human — to 
 love and to be loved — came upon him all of a 
 sudden with overwhelming force. Dick's jest had 
 awakened and called into being all the longing 
 for fireside joys which he had for so long sup- 
 pressed. 
 
 " Would it have to go on this way for always? 
 By what right," he asked himself fiercely, " should 
 this be required of him? Had he not endeavored 
 to make the best of things ? The home had never 
 been a pleasant one, his wife uncongenial, but he 
 had always been patient, hoping that harmony 
 would come in time. And before this could be 
 brought about she had abandoned him. He didn't 
 even know whether she were still living. Had he 
 240 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 not endured enough as it was? There ought to 
 be something else in life besides renunciation ! " 
 
 Before going to bed that night Fullerton wrote 
 Mr. Edmundston, asking for particulars concern- 
 ing his wife. It was possible that she had already 
 divorced him, serving the notice by publication. 
 This would not surprise him, he thought. It 
 would only be on a line with her general attitude 
 toward him, and, in any event, it would be well 
 to know the status of things in the matter. 
 
 White and Fillmore remained in Camp several 
 days, during which White began taking notes for 
 his story of Blakeslee. Fillmore, greatly inter- 
 ested in the little sociological experiment going 
 on there, both as regards the mine, as well as the 
 health camp, made it his business to get acquainted 
 with the miners, and also struck up a friendship 
 with the young physician, Dr. Myers. The work 
 already inaugurated here, though of a different 
 character from that which was being evolved at 
 their own Camp, gave promise of good results. 
 With the advent of the ladies a poultry yard had 
 been inaugurated, a cow had been installed, al- 
 though feed had to be packed many miles across 
 the desert, a laundry for the use of all was main- 
 tained, and a good vegetable garden carried on. 
 
 At first, some of the miners continued to do 
 241 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 their own cooking from force of habit, but now 
 they all ate at the common table, or rather tables, 
 as there were several, and the greater comfort of 
 it all, as well as the superior quality of the food, 
 amply repaid them for their work and outlay in 
 the new departure. The social side of it appealed 
 to them too. It came to be a kind of festive 
 occasion to them, dining in the presence of ladies, 
 and they were only just becoming aware of the 
 privations they had hitherto undergone. 
 
 Given the right material to work on, we know 
 Cupid can ply his arts as successfully out on the 
 desert as in the crowded marts of trade. All he 
 wants is half a chance, and he had this, and more 
 with the advent of the ladies at Camp Bowlegs. 
 Having secured so good a votary in Dick, the 
 efforts of the little winged creature were next 
 directed toward what seemed a more unpromising 
 subject, but this, too, was finally carried through to 
 a successful issue, without much difficulty. " When 
 a man buys Germantown wool," thought White 
 that day in the department store in town, " he's 
 already hard hit." But of Fullerton and Cupid, 
 more anon. 
 
 The problem with the invalids of where to 
 
 spend the summer loomed up here at Bowlegs as 
 
 elsewhere. It was now May, and with the advent 
 
 of summer, the question became daily more insist- 
 
 242 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 ent. At times it already became uncomfortably 
 warm at midday; what it would be in July might 
 be conjectured. The long-continued heat of the 
 Arizona summer, in the valley, becomes depress- 
 ing to the invalids, with the result that the gain 
 achieved during the winter, is often lost in the 
 summer sojourn. This the boys were aware of, 
 and, flattered by Fillmore's interest in their work, 
 they held a meeting, at which it was unanimously 
 resolved to provide a Summer Camp for the in- 
 valids. (It was characteristic of them that the 
 word " lunger," everywhere in use in Arizona, 
 more especially by the invalids themselves, was 
 never used by the miners since the advent of the 
 ladies.) 
 
 Should the health of the visitors continue to 
 improve as in the past, they would probably be 
 in condition to be graduated after another winter, 
 as they were incipient cases for the most part. 
 With dismay the thought came to them that 
 with recovery there would be no further occasion 
 for their presence in the Camp — until it occurred 
 to them that others could readily be induced to 
 come in their places. It was not to be thought of, 
 to allow the Camp to revert to its former condi- 
 tion of privation and discomfort. That they 
 themselves would be benefited as a result of the 
 experiment, was something that had never oc- 
 
 243 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 curred to them when starting the project, and it 
 was a compensation as unexpected as agreeable. 
 They would continue the work. It involved labor 
 as well as expense to care for invalids so far from 
 civilization, but on the social side alone they found 
 it well worth while. Each man-jack of them 
 worked more assiduously in the added incentive 
 which the project offered. 
 
 Yes, they would continue to extend the hospi- 
 tality of the Camp to a few invalids right along, 
 summer and winter. The means for doing it 
 came out of the ground placed there by the Al- 
 mighty, perhaps for this very purpose, as Fuller- 
 ton pointed out during the conclave (to which a 
 hearty response of " You bet I " and " Bet your 
 life ! " from the others gave a suggestion as if 
 proceeding from a religious meeting) and they 
 couldn't apply a portion of their surplus to better 
 use. The mine had cost them nothing in the first 
 place beyond the prospecting, and they had a treas- 
 ure in it, their labor bringing in much more than 
 was needed for their own purposes. " Would it 
 be a square deal toward the Giver," Fullerton 
 asked, " for us to take this gift, and let others 
 suffer, perhaps die, for want of a portion of this 
 surplus which we cannot use anyway ? " 
 
 Perhaps our greatest mistakes in life result from 
 our inability to get at the point of view of others. 
 244 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 We are, most of us, so encysted with selfishness, 
 that we are unable to see conditions as they are; 
 we only see dimly, and with distorted vision. We 
 are, for the most part, quite oblivious to what 
 should be our right relations toward our fellow 
 human beings. Even when their lives are bound 
 up in ours is this too often the case. We see their 
 difficulties from our point of view, a point of view 
 so colored by our selfishness, that we are only too 
 prone to minimize them. We see only the outer 
 manifestation, not the inner pain. To us the 
 tragedy being enacted under our very eyes seems 
 meanwhile only an inconvenience which the suf- 
 ferer should bear with equanimity. 
 
 These men, living close to the realities of life, 
 — away from its sophistries and artificialities, ap- 
 prehended the situation more correctly. Through 
 aiding the invalids at their Camp toward recov- 
 ery, they themselves attained to a clearer mental 
 outlook. They discerned thereby that each is a 
 debtor to others for what happiness is gotten from 
 life, and that it is not enough to pay your financial 
 obligations; the meanest clown does that. They 
 came to perceive a wider obligation, the obliga- 
 tion of the individual to the whole, to ignore 
 which is to make a defaulter of oneself. In giving 
 of their surplus, they did not feel that they were 
 performing a specially meritorious act; rather, as 
 245 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 the opportunity of doing their little toward squar- 
 ing the account had presented itself to them in 
 such agreeable fashion, they came to regard it as 
 a privilege. 
 
 And the Camp prospered in greater measure 
 than ever before. Whether this was owing to the 
 fact that each now worked with more zest than 
 formerly — having more incentive thereto, or that 
 " the luck " had come to the Camp along with 
 these ladies — a vein of superstition is generally a 
 part of the make-up of the miner — there was no 
 disputing the fact that more ore, and better ore 
 was now coming to the surface than formerly, and 
 the added expense of maintaining the health camp 
 was in part being made up; the sacrifices they 
 had made, had been by some strange alchemy 
 transmuted into benefits. 
 
 It was finally decided that the best place for 
 the Summer Camp would be in one of the valleys 
 of Southern California, where the summer climate 
 somewhat resembles that of the Arizona winter 
 in the absence of rains and dews, and in the warm 
 sunshiny days and clear, cool nights. Dick had 
 argued in favor of having it somewhere in Ari- 
 zona, the Verde country, or the region about 
 Flagstaff; or the Coconino Forest near the Grand 
 Canon, but was overruled by the physician, who 
 pointed out the great danger to some from the 
 246 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 extreme altitude, saying that even a moderate alti- 
 tude was harmful in a third of the cases, and that 
 any reasonable degree of coolness was not to be 
 looked for in Arizona except at an altitude that 
 might be injurious to these. It ended by Dick 
 and the physician being delegated to go on ahead, 
 select a suitable location, purchase tents and equip- 
 ments, and, when all was ready, the others were to 
 follow, under the charge of Berkely or Fullerton. 
 
 Of Dick, Fillmore saw but little after the Cali- 
 fornia project was decided on. His clerical duties, 
 in anticipation of his absence, kept him measur- 
 ably busy, and his spare hours were devoted to 
 Nancy. Honest Dick ran the gamut of the emo- 
 tions these days. Nancy's recovery was the main 
 thing, and, once convinced that this could be better 
 effected in California he cooperated heartily with 
 the project of establishing the Summer Camp 
 there. Her departure must be hastened as much 
 as possible. She must not remain here and lose 
 what she had already gained. Her restoration to 
 health meant the life happiness of both. 
 
 But the long separation! She must be absent 
 at least five months, and how he was to get through 
 this period, the poor fellow did not himself know. 
 Five months! Each month would seem like a 
 year. It was with a sinking of the heart that he 
 thought of it. % On the other hand, she would be 
 247 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 living under such healthful conditions there, that 
 good progress toward recovery would be made, 
 and at this thought, his depression would give way 
 to elation. 
 
 All this he concealed from Nancy, whose out- 
 look on life, to insure recovery, must be as pleas- 
 ant as possible he argued. Acting on this, he often 
 began to whistle on approaching her tent when 
 his heart was like a stone within him. This did 
 not deceive Nancy in the least, whose feminine 
 intuitions enabled her to. comprehend Dick's true 
 frame of mind; but it brought her nearer to him 
 in spirit, than had all his ardent protestations. 
 
 Fillmore's preoccupation with the others gave 
 White a good opportunity for going on with his 
 story ; he meant to have it well on the road to com- 
 pletion before going away for the summer. The 
 friends deferred their return to their own Camp 
 until Dick and Dr. Myers were ready to start for 
 California so as to enable them to make the trip 
 to town together, and their stay at Bowlegs con- 
 tinued for nearly a week. Finally, however, Dick 
 announced that he was ready, and they left on the 
 following morning. 
 
 They made an early start, being on the road 
 
 before daybreak, Dick and the physician in the 
 
 saddle. Dick was preoccupied; in fact he had a 
 
 grievance. He had not kissed Nancy, and would 
 
 248 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 probably not see her again in over a fortnight. A 
 thousand miles would separate them, and he had 
 not kissed her; he had never yet done so, kissing 
 being strictly against the sanatorium discipline 
 under which his recovery had been made. Hang 
 the sanatorium! But what a discipline it was! 
 How strongly they must have instilled the rules 
 into his mind that the effect should so outlast his 
 stay there ! should so rise superior to desire ! The 
 fellows had sometimes compared existence there 
 with that of the monastic life, and well they might, 
 thought Dick. 
 
 He nursed his grievance all the morning, but at 
 the nooning, his work of preparing coffee, frying 
 bacon, and the other homely camp duties took his 
 mind off his own affairs. He gave his companions 
 an illustration of the prospector's camping meth- 
 ods, which dispenses not only with all superflui- 
 ties but also most necessities. He made his fire 
 of sagebrush, then wiping the dust out of the 
 frying-pan with a piece of newspaper, turned the 
 inside of the pan to the fire to cleanse it. No pros- 
 pector ever wastes canteen water in washing 
 dishes, the newspaper being made to answer every 
 purpose in this respect. 
 
 The appetite that each brought to the repast, 
 rendered keen by the long ride in the clear desert 
 air, made it seem a banquet to them, and the feeling 
 249 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 of well-being that it induced acted as a lubricant 
 to their speech. 
 
 " Do you see that mountain peak in the opening 
 from this range?" asked Dick of Fillmore, indi- 
 cating a mountain to the Southward bathed in 
 purplish haze. " That's in Mexico, not so far 
 from the Arizona border, and, some years ago, 
 was the scene of a most desperate encounter be- 
 tween a solitary prospector on the one side, and 
 about a dozen of the savage Yaquis on the other." 
 
 " He surrounded them and took them prison- 
 ers? " asked White, butting in. 
 
 " Not exactly, but for an entire day held them 
 at bay, and outwitted them at the last. He was a 
 daredevil for fair in those days, by all accounts," 
 went on Dick narratively. " I know him well; 
 he Was a member of our Camp until recently, and 
 I've often heard him tell the story. There was 
 an old Mexican in Sonora, Don Patricio de Her- 
 era, who had a valuable mining claim on this 
 mountain, which was about to lapse owing to non- 
 payment of taxes. It was a gold proposition, the 
 annual tax for retaining which, is ten dollars for 
 each pertene nc'ia. The concession was a large one, 
 comprising many pertenencias , and this was only 
 one among several that the Don was holding 
 down. These Mexican Dons always think and 
 act in large figures, and it may be that he was at 
 250 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 times really pressed for money and was unable to 
 meet this payment. The claim, as I have said, 
 was a valuable one, but the Don, indolent and 
 wealthy, had no thought of working it, simply 
 holding on to it from year to year. Well, there 
 was a reckless, daredevil kind of a fellow named 
 Middleton, who had got on to the deal. He 
 knew the Don's carelessness, and had watched the 
 thing, intending to jump the claim as soon as the 
 Don's right had lapsed. 
 
 " It was a spirit of bravado and adventure, with 
 a little revenge thrown in, that prompted Middle- 
 ton as much as anything else in the matter. He 
 had been sweet on the Mexican's daughter, but 
 the old Don would have nothing of him, and sent 
 the girl to a convent in the City of Mexico. 
 
 " Middleton watched his chance and, when 
 within a day of the expiration of the claim, went 
 to the Don, taunted him with the statement that 
 the claim had practically lapsed, and that he in- 
 tended jumping it. He placed his whole reliance 
 on a horse that had few equals in the way of 
 speed and staying qualities. He had made his 
 preparations beforehand, and without stopping to 
 hear the Don's reply, put spurs to his broncho, 
 and rode away. 
 
 " But Middleton was not to have so easy a vic- 
 tory as he had supposed. Don Patricio, ordinarily 
 251 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 careless and easy going, could act with decision 
 when occasion required, and he was equal to his 
 emergency in the present instance. Among his 
 vaqueros was one named Enrico, who was a match 
 for Middleton in recklessness and hardihood, with 
 the further advantage of having been bred to the 
 life. He had been given charge of the escort 
 which had conducted the Don's daughter to No- 
 gales, the nearest railroad town, on her journey 
 to the City of Mexico, and Don Patricio knew 
 that he could trust him in anything. Enrico must 
 reach the claim first, and post a notice in his own 
 name. Before Middleton was out of sight the 
 Don had jumped onto one of the ponies, which, 
 saddled and bridled, are to be seen at all hours 
 about the Mexican hacienda, and was off in quest 
 of Enrico. Now, Enrico knew of a short cut 
 which Middleton would not dare take even if he 
 knew of it, owing to a most dangerous ford which 
 was almost impassible on account of quicksands. 
 By the farther route the claim was but a hundred 
 miles distant from the hacienda, and as this could 
 be done in a day at a pinch, he would be sure to 
 take no chances in the matter. In a trip like that, 
 the horse is the key to the situation. Enrico had 
 a broncho which he had reared from a colt, which 
 in intelligence was almost human, and which he 
 felt could be safely pitted against the other's 
 252 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 horse. It transpired that he had made the trip 
 to the claim once before, in the Don's service, 
 taking the short cut over the dangerous ford, on 
 which occasion the broncho had shown a sagacity 
 in working out of the quicksands, worthy of the 
 evil one, as the vaquero afterward told Don 
 Patricio. 
 
 " Enrico had his preparations soon made — the 
 Mexican vaquero being almost as hardy and ab- 
 stemious on occasion as his horse — and rode away 
 confident of victory. 
 
 " On the route taken by Middleton — the longer 
 one, as Enrico rightly surmised — there was a 
 water-hole about sixty miles out, which he reached 
 toward evening of the first day. Here he made 
 his camp for the night. He had been keeping a 
 sharp lookout all day for Indians, the Apaches 
 and the Yaquis having always been troublesome in 
 those parts. He was well heeled, and slept with 
 his Winchester at his side, but he passed the night 
 without incident. The approach to the water-hole 
 was through a narrow defile, with almost per- 
 pendicular cliffs on each side and was a good 
 strategic point. 
 
 " The trouble began while at breakfast, shortly 
 after daylight, when he noticed the Yaquis ap- 
 proaching warily, beyond gunshot. He had plenty 
 of ammunition, and, as they came within range, 
 253 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 let fly at the foremost, disabling his horse. Their 
 horses seemed spent; it looked as if they had come 
 in from a long ride and wanted the water more 
 than anything else, but Middleton could take no 
 chances. As I have said, he kept them at bay all 
 day, wounding several as they came within reach. 
 They could not scale the cliffs, and to go around 
 the mountain so as to attack him from the other 
 side would take half a day, and would be well- 
 nigh impossible in the condition which their horses 
 were in, so he felt reasonably safe while daylight 
 lasted. After that, the tables would be turned on 
 him he well knew." 
 
 11 How did he get out of it? " asked White, as 
 Dick paused to light another cigar. 
 
 " Held them off until nightfall, and then blew 
 up the water-hole." 
 
 " Blew it up ! How, and why? " 
 
 " Prospectors usually carry a few sticks of dyna- 
 mite as part of their outfit on going into the desert," 
 replied Dick, " so as to enable them, should they 
 make a find, to extend their examination by blast- 
 ing. Middleton was provided in this respect, and 
 knew that his only chance of escape lay in putting 
 the water-hole out of commission. Many signs 
 pointed indubitably to the fact that his enemies 
 were well-nigh exhausted for want of water. His 
 own horse was fresh, having had a little grazing, 
 254 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 and a sufficiency of water. He knew he would be 
 attacked under cover of the darkness. His only 
 hope was to blow up the water-hole at nightfall 
 and flee. Among the Indians, neither men nor 
 horses would be able to pursue him far without 
 water; his only hope was in effectually destroying 
 the water-hole for the time being and thus render 
 his enemies powerless." 
 
 " And did it all pan out as he had planned? " 
 asked White. 
 
 " Pretty much so. He was all ready for opera- 
 tions before sundown, and when the time came to 
 leave, lighted his fuse, mounted his horse and 
 dashed away. He knew that the Indians would 
 pursue at once, but he counted on some of them 
 being injured by the explosion, and this would 
 make a diversion. He didn't make more than 
 about ten miles that night. He was worn out by 
 the occurrences of the day, and, on reaching a 
 spot where he felt himself reasonably secure, went 
 into camp for the night." 
 
 " And did he reach the claim ahead of the 
 other?" 
 
 " When he reached the spot at about noon," 
 said Dick, toying with his cigar, " he found him- 
 self looking into the barrel of Enrico's Win- 
 chester. Enrico was master of the situation, and 
 made him disarm at once, Middleton taunting 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 him all the while with having set the Indians on 
 him. This Enrico stoutly denied, and at one time 
 they nearly came to blows over the matter. 
 
 " The chivalry of some of these Mexicans, or 
 rather Spaniards, is fantastic. In order to prevent 
 himself from being shot he had been compelled to 
 disarm Middleton, but having rendered him de- 
 fenseless, would not have harmed him for the 
 world. In fact, when the time was up, and Enrico 
 the rightful owner of the claim, they went back 
 together over the course Middleton had come, 
 apparently the best of friends. When they reached 
 civilization again, Enrico insisted on replacing 
 Middleton's weapons which he had destroyed. 
 
 " Middleton might still have had a chance at 
 the claim had he wished to press it. According 
 to the Mexican mining law when two individuals 
 apply simultaneously for the same claim, the mat- 
 ter is decided by lot, and although he knew that 
 Enrico did not have the means to hold down such 
 a concession, but would probably transfer it to the 
 Don for a small consideration, he made no further 
 attempts in the matter. Enrico had treated him 
 white when he had him in his power, and he was 
 not the man to forget such a thing." 
 
 "And what about the Yaquis?" asked Fill- 
 more, "and the water-hole? Was that de- 
 stroyed? " 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 " It was spoiled for the time being all right," 
 replied Dick. " As for the Indians, no sign of 
 them was to be seen. They may have reached 
 water unknown to Middleton; at all events, the 
 two men saw nothing of them, and got back with- 
 out incident. 
 
 Before mounting, Dick tendered the hospitality 
 of the Summer Camp that was to be, to Fillmore 
 and his friends. " Should any of your party wish 
 to join ours in making a summer camp in Cali- 
 fornia," said he to Fillmore, " it will be all right. 
 Don't you want to come yourself?" 
 
 11 I'm not sure but I'll go East this summer. 
 Anyhow I'll remain until the heat drives me out. 
 I never make up my mind on any course until I'm 
 compelled to." 
 
 " We'll take the evening train out to-night. 
 We'll stop and see you on our return. We can 
 tell then all about the Summer Camp, and perhaps 
 you'll make up your mind to join the party. The 
 more that camp together within certain limits, the 
 better." 
 
 " I'll speak to the others about it. No doubt 
 several will want to come," replied Fillmore, and 
 then the party pushed forward again, reaching 
 the city in season to enable them to take a bath 
 before supper. 
 
 As the cavalcade turned a corner on the way to 
 257 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 the hotel, the party heard a halloo evidently di- 
 rected to White from some one coming from an 
 opposite direction. It proved to be an acquaint- 
 ance whom he had known in Prescott the previous 
 summer. His first inquiry was for Blakeslee. 
 " How's your old partner Blakeslee ? I've often 
 thought of you two fellows camping there under 
 the big pine, you got along so well together." A 
 shadow flitted across White's face. The other 
 understood and turned the conversation. But 
 when he parted from him it was with an extra 
 pressure of the hand. 
 
 258 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE sound sleep incidental to nights passed 
 under the stars, gave Branscombe a feel- 
 ing of vigor and a joy in living, which after all 
 these months was still a novelty to him. The 
 nights brought him accessions of strength. It 
 seemed as if, during the sound sleep which he 
 enjoyed, the spirit drew from some unknown 
 source influx of sanity, of wisdom, which was 
 making another man of him, giving him an alto- 
 gether better outlook on life. The days severally 
 came to be of importance, " a stately procession 
 to unheard-of music," the nights periods of ex- 
 pansion, growth. 
 
 As foreseen by Fillmore, he became so much 
 interested by the success of the casino and bath- 
 house, that he began to consider placing the Camp 
 on a permanent basis. The little he had done 
 hitherto — tentative as it was — held advantages to 
 the others which were so apparent that he found 
 himself taking the keenest interest in planning 
 further conveniences. 
 
 A conversation he held with Fillmore and 
 259 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 White, in the latter's tent one evening, helped 
 bring him to a decision in the matter. Fillmore 
 had remarked that Alford would in all probability 
 still be living, and on the road to recovery, had he 
 been placed in a well-organized health camp a 
 year or even six months earlier. 
 
 " Alford's death was uncalled for," said he. 
 11 From what I can gather of his case, he might 
 have pulled through, or at least have prolonged 
 his life for some years. When I first took his 
 temperature, three months or more before he died, 
 I advised him to go to bed and stay there, telling 
 him that with rest in a recumbent posture for a 
 month or two, the fever might be controlled. In 
 a regular, organized camp, one of the best fea- 
 tures is the discipline that is maintained. Had 
 Alford been required to follow instructions the 
 outcome might have been quite otherwise. True, 
 his reason for not doing so was a good enough 
 one. Being alone, he would have no one to do 
 things for him he said. I met this objection, how- 
 ever, by telling him that he could eat half-a-dozen 
 raw eggs a day, which with milk and possibly 
 some of the pre-digested breakfast food, would 
 be nourishment enough. The others would make 
 his purchases and render him such other assistance 
 as was necessary." 
 
 " ' The others/ said he, ( are sick themselves; 
 260 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 they couldn't be expected to wait on me. They 
 have all they can do to meet their own require- 
 
 ments.' " 
 
 " A health camp like the Denver institution is 
 something that is greatly needed here," remarked 
 White. " Not one out of fifty that come here can 
 afford to pay more than twenty-five dollars per 
 month. In most cases, the money has to be earned 
 first by their relatives at home. Managed in a 
 businesslike manner, such an institution can be 
 made almost self-supporting at that price. This, 
 of course, would include medical attendance. In 
 what other field of effort could an original ex- 
 penditure of a few thousands be made to yield 
 such yearly results? If provision were made for 
 health-seekers so that on arrival they could go 
 right into some well-managed camp — the think- 
 ing and planning having already been done for 
 them — a much greater percentage of cures would 
 be effected. The worry that would thereby be 
 averted can hardly be calculated, and this from a 
 class who have enough to endure as it is. What 
 I went through in worrying before I got settled 
 I could not describe, and it could not be under- 
 stood by any one in health." 
 
 44 The invalid on arrival, a stranger in a strange 
 land, often sick from the hardships of the journey, 
 is not in physical condition to select a site and make 
 261 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 his camp purchases," affirmed Fillmore. " I came 
 alone; and the difficulties ahead caused me much 
 anxiety even before arrival, as I didn't know what 
 was required. Many, in their exhausted condition, 
 even put up their tents. All this tends against 
 recovery." 
 
 " I happen to know," adduced White, M that 
 the worry incidental to selecting a location and 
 buying and furnishing the tent, has injured the 
 invalid in a number of cases. There is an instance 
 of it right in our Camp. Then too, it always costs 
 more than they at first think it will, and in some 
 cases, when all is paid, they are frightened at 
 the depletion of their little capital. This leads 
 them to economize in their food, which of itself is 
 enough to retard recovery, or even make it im- 
 possible." 
 
 While White was speaking, Branscombe's gaze 
 had rested once or twice on the water-color which 
 Blakeslee had painted for him, and which had 
 been delivered to him by the ranchman. At a 
 pause in the conversation, Branscombe, indicating 
 the picture, which was pinned carelessly to one 
 of the cross-beams of the tent-house, asked: 
 
 "That an Arizona scene?" Then, going 
 
 nearer — " It's very good." He regarded it with 
 
 the interest which the connoisseur accords a work 
 
 of talent. " Good composition," was his first 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 thought. " The mountain's the main feature, the 
 file of savages approaching it at the right as if 
 coming to worship being subsidiary. And there's 
 good balance; it's better not to have put the 
 mountain square in the middle as a lesser man 
 would have done. And the chiaroscuro! What 
 would not the Master have said of it! Outside 
 work, of course — middle afternoon. Nothing of 
 studio landscape about this. And what colorings ! 
 How marvelously he has caught momentary 
 effects ! The mountains here are as mobile and al- 
 most as expressionfull as the human face. What 
 a radiance of light and color! He's an idealist. 
 He's treated it imaginatively; yet I've seen the 
 mountains look like this for a few moments at a 
 time. To have a vision like that and the brain 
 to record it ! " 
 
 " That ought to be under glass," he finally said, 
 addressing White. " There's good work there. 
 Is it by an American? I don't recognize the sig- 
 nature, B. If you will permit me, I'll have it 
 framed for you." 
 
 " All right," agreed White, " and you can Kang 
 it in the casino if you like. That'll be my contri- 
 bution toward the work." He related the circum- 
 stances under which the painting had come to him, 
 giving him at the same time, a little of his part- 
 ner's history. 
 
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 11 Blakeslee," mused Branscombe. 
 
 " Sandford Blakeslee," interpolated White. 
 " He was from New York." 
 
 " The Sandford Blakeslee I used to know 
 couldn't have done this kind of work," was 
 Branscombe's comment. u It's very singular. I 
 knew most of the artists of any distinction in the 
 East, at least by reputation. It's odd that I should 
 not have heard of him." After a moment's pause 
 he added : " Better let me send it on to Paris to 
 my old master. I think they will be glad to have 
 it on exhibition there." 
 
 " If we consider what it costs to build a hospital 
 and keep it going," discoursed Fillmore, taking 
 up the theme again after the little interruption 
 brought about by Blakeslee's picture, " and then 
 remember that the same results can be secured here 
 on the desert at perhaps a quarter of the cost per 
 individual benefited, it would seem to be only a 
 question of time before enough such camps will 
 be instituted, to provide for all who need them. 
 The establishing of hospitals," he went on, " has 
 from medieval times on, been peculiarly the lux- 
 ury of the wealthy. This modified form of it is 
 within the reach of the well-to-do middle class, 
 and from this class, numerically the strongest, 
 and immeasurably the happiest, should proceed 
 the initiative in the work." 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Fillmore had become greatly interested in these 
 sociological subjects, and had given them consid- 
 erable thought from the inception of the work 
 done by Branscombe at the Camp. As a physi- 
 cian, he saw not only the need of it from the 
 humanitarian point of view of relieving suffering; 
 he went further, realizing that cures could be ef- 
 fected thus, other things being equal, where other- 
 wise only a fatal result could be looked for. He 
 had seen enough right on the grounds where they 
 were of the haphazard methods, or rather want 
 of method that characterized individual effort, to 
 bring home to him his own responsibility in the 
 matter, and he intended, as stated in a previous 
 chapter, to give his services to the Camp when it 
 became a permanent affair, a result which he confi- 
 dently expected would come to pass with the 
 coming winter. 
 
 11 When any one succeeds in saving a single 
 life," he continued, " by pulling a person out of 
 the water or from in front of an on-coming trolley 
 car, he performs a feat that is commended by every 
 one; he himself feels that he has done something 
 worthy, something to justify existence. By estab- 
 lishing a health camp he can do this on a larger 
 scale, and it becomes increasingly interesting. It's 
 a work worthy of one's best efforts. The tuber- 
 culosis campaign is destined to become a great 
 265 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 national movement in all progressive countries. 
 At present Germany is the only one where the 
 problem is at all adequately met, and the assertion 
 is made there, that the disease will practically be 
 stamped out in their country before the expiration 
 of the first third of this century. Of course, that 
 is Utopian, yet stranger things than this have 
 come to pass. They have no natural advantages 
 in the way of climate or public lands as we have, 
 and they deserve all the more credit for what 
 they are achieving. As a matter of fact, the work 
 can be done better and more economically here in 
 the Southwest than in any other part of the world. 
 There are large tracts of absolutely worthless land 
 here, to which water for domestic purposes can 
 be conveyed in sufficient quantities. Much of 
 this desert land can never be utilized for other 
 purposes, but it makes ideal sites for health 
 camps." 
 
 " A right good work has already been done in 
 our Camp," put in White. " How much better 
 the Deacon looks ! I begin to think now, that he 
 may pull through." 
 
 " He's a very intractable patient though, for 
 such a mild-mannered man," was Branscombe's 
 answer. " He does all sorts of things he oughtn't, 
 and omits doing what he ought half the time." 
 
 " And there's no health in him ! " said White. 
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 " But he's in much better shape than when he 
 lived alone and did his work," asserted Fillmore. 
 
 11 I don't think it well for the invalids to do their 
 cooking," remarked White, coming down to a nar- 
 row and personal view of the subject. He re- 
 garded cooking and camp work in general with 
 the dislike that only the student and scholar, im- 
 patient at interruption to his work, is capable of, 
 and he looked with disfavor on all plans of health 
 camps that did not include in their scheme of 
 things a restaurant or table service. 
 
 " Diet," he went on, " is as important as pure 
 air. This has been demonstrated again and again 
 by those qualified to speak on the subject. The aver- 
 age lunger don't know how to cook, and don't know 
 what he should eat. It's bad for him too, to wash 
 dishes; he shouldn't put his hands in water more 
 than is necessary. Then again the labor of pre- 
 paring his meals is often more than he is equal to. 
 He's apt, also, to be too economical." 
 
 " One advantage of it, however," averred 
 Branscombe, " is that it gives them something to 
 do; although I agree with you, that they are apt 
 not to do it properly, and to neglect themselves in 
 various ways." 
 
 " Tuberculosis has invaded every family in the 
 country," continued Fillmore. " There are direct 
 wires on this question from heart to heart 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 throughout the populace. The knowledge that it 
 is curable and preventable places an enormous re- 
 sponsibility on thinking people. As Pasteur has 
 said, it is in the power of man to cause all 
 parasitic maladies to disappear from the earth. 
 Tuberculosis will continue to be the scourge it is 
 until adequate measures are taken to stamp it out. 
 We'd come off much easier by tackling the prob- 
 lem efficiently at once. We're paying a heavy price 
 now for our supineness. Relief for the situation 
 is required of us, now that we know the condi- 
 tions of the disease. The longer we shirk it the 
 bigger the penalty we will have to pay; for pay 
 we must to the uttermost farthing. That over 
 one hundred thousand people die of it annually 
 in this country alone, enduring incredible suffering 
 meanwhile, is because it is permitted to be here. 
 With an organization competent to do battle with 
 it, the disease could be exterminated in one gen- 
 eration. But the task is so large a one that only 
 by concerted action on the part of large bodies of 
 people, with the government in conjunction, can 
 this be brought about. 
 
 " Our government ought to take the work in 
 hand," he went on, " just as is done with yellow 
 fever. Tuberculosis is quite as communicable and 
 far more prevalent. The health of the populace 
 is of the first importance. It already now looks 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 after the consumptives of the army and navy, and 
 it would be a comparatively simple matter to ex- 
 tend the work on the same lines. A few sections 
 of desert land in Arizona and California could 
 be set aside for the purpose. Congress then 
 would be asked to make appropriations, just as 
 is done in the matter of the Indian schools and in 
 the irrigation work. The rest is easy. If every 
 consumptive of small means, or without means, 
 could go to a government camp on becoming 
 aware of his condition, where he could have the best 
 of care, a much larger percentage of cures would 
 be effected, and, what is of far more importance, it 
 would be impossible for him to spread the con- 
 tagion. There is far more tuberculosis to the 
 square mile in New York or Chicago than right 
 here, with all the conditions there favorable to its 
 development. Living in a lungers' camp as you 
 are, you are really not taking half the chances of 
 the disease that any resident of a big city does; 
 for out here, in this dry pure air of the desert, it 
 is impossible for the disease to propagate itself 
 when simple precautions are taken. In addition 
 the educational part of the work would be vigor- 
 ously pushed, and definite results would soon be 
 forthcoming. The discipline required in such 
 a health camp would remain with the graduates 
 when they return to their work. There would 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 be no spitting about as is too often the case 
 now, as each would be on his guard against 
 reinfection." 
 
 " It will eventually be brought about," replied 
 White, " that the government will take hold of 
 the matter, but it may take time. Much of the 
 public money is now appropriated to utilitarian 
 ends of less importance to the people as a whole. 
 Consider the money that is spent on rivers and 
 harbors. Necessary as that is, within certain lim- ' 
 its I would rather see some of it diverted to the 
 relief of those delicate women encamped along the 
 roadsides here, alone and in poverty, making such 
 a brave fight for life." 
 
 " It'll come in due time," agreed Fillmore. 
 " Of course there'll be opposition. Take the irri- 
 gation work for instance, certainly a wise and sane 
 measure. It's only a few years since the project 
 was first broached, that it was properly the province 
 of the government to take this in hand, as it had 
 proven to be too big for individual effort. The 
 idea of applying to the government to reclaim these 
 arid lands originated in this valley I am told, but 
 the man who had the temerity to propose it in 
 the first instance was laughed at and ridiculed as 
 a visionary. ' Why,' it was contended, ' should 
 the government concern itself in such a matter? 
 It's surely not the function of the government to 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 supply the rancher with water. As well lend the 
 miner governmental aid in getting his ore out of 
 the ground.' Another said: ' Don't expect it be- 
 fore the millennium.' It was characterized as 
 chimerical, as socialistic, and the very persons who 
 were to be benefited by it, were the ones to ' knock ' 
 it hardest. The following year it was taken up at 
 the Irrigation Congress at San Francisco, where 
 it was knocked again as being too good to be be- 
 lieved in. 
 
 " At least the government should look after its 
 employees when incapacitated for work by this 
 disease. Government employees give good, faith- 
 ful service and in general are not overpaid. This 
 is especially true in the postal service. Many of 
 the business houses throughout the country help 
 out the better class of their employees in a slow, 
 expensive illness of this kind, and surely the gov- 
 ernment should not be behind its citizens in this 
 respect. This could be done easiest and most 
 effectually by establishing camps for them in the 
 Southwest where they might have every advantage 
 that modern science can offer. This would result 
 in saving many lives. 
 
 u It's a reflection on us as a people," continued 
 
 Fillmore, " that we should be behind Germany 
 
 in our facilities for attacking the problem. With 
 
 twice the population and perhaps ten times the 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 wealth, and with so large a floating population, 
 we ought to do far more than other nations in this 
 respect." 
 
 " It won't long be so," predicted White, with 
 difficulty grasping the idea that we are behind 
 any other nation in anything. " We have the best 
 climate, and the money — two great advantages. 
 A good beginning has been made. Most of the 
 Eastern States have at least one sanatorium ex- 
 clusively for consumptives, where patients are re- 
 ceived at a nominal charge — five or six dollars a 
 week, and in no municipality in the world, is the 
 problem handled so comprehensively and effectively 
 as in New York. There are, too, a number of 
 private individuals in various parts of the country, 
 who give the use of their grounds to consumptives, 
 and aid them in other ways. There are many 
 well-disposed people of means, who would proba- 
 bly be glad to take up the work, pending action 
 by the government if they knew the need of it, 
 and could be brought to see what results can be 
 secured along these lines." 
 
 The conversation was food for thought to 
 Branscombe for some days following. Not that 
 he hesitated much in the matter. An organized 
 camp, where the best of facilities would be avail- 
 able to health-seekers at a nominal price, had been 
 taking form in his mind, subconsciously, for 
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 months past. It was, in fact, the logical outcome 
 of his mental attitude on that Christmas eve when 
 he heard the tinkle of the guitar in the other tent, 
 and took himself to task at his inability to apper- 
 ceive the pathos of the pitiful attempts of the boys 
 to celebrate the holiday. He had been advancing 
 toward this, step by step from the time of first 
 carrying the bucket of water for the Deacon, which 
 little act, done on the spur of the moment, had 
 really led up to the purchase of the land and the 
 sinking of the well. 
 
 The silent influence of his partner's character, 
 in the comradery and intimacy of camp life, had, 
 too, its bearing on the question, as well as his own 
 efforts put forth to aid in the restoration to health 
 of the other. From the time that he had taken up 
 the task of watching over the Deacon's health in the 
 effort to save his life if possible, his thought, occu- 
 pied with this subject, led on, insensibly, to a wider 
 view, in which the claims of others as well as his 
 partner, pressed insistently for recognition. Once 
 enlisted, his interest grew steadily though imper- 
 ceptibly, so that whenever he went to town and 
 saw the listless, apathetic, sad faces of young fel- 
 lows, health-seekers, chafing against enforced idle- 
 ness and dependence, hanging about the saloons 
 and gambling places in sheer desperation, or from 
 want of something better to do, all that was noble 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 or generous in him rose up in revolt at the wrong 
 of permitting such a state of things to continue. 
 The commonest instincts of humanity, he felt, re- 
 quired him to do what he could to get them into 
 a better environment. 
 
 Surely if any class in the world needed planning 
 for, it was these invalids who remained in town 
 on account of economy, in cheap, ill-ventilated 
 lodgings, and ate at the common restaurants, 
 where the food was bad, and poorly cooked. 
 They were fighting against such odds — how great 
 they themselves were not aware of. Was ever 
 situation more pathetic than theirs? They had 
 struggled so hard, suffered so much, and this would 
 have to go on in crescendo until vanquished when 
 left to themselves. In general they were but 
 scantily provided with money and were required 
 to pay well for everything they got. It followed 
 that they got but little of those things that were 
 essential to their recovery. How much better off 
 they would be out on the desert in a camp such 
 as he had in mind! 
 
 " It's the way they start in," he said to himself. 
 " If they stay in town on coming, it gets to be a 
 habit with them and they think they cannot con- 
 tent themselves anywhere but in town. Those 
 that go to the desert on the start, if within easy 
 distance of a car line, even though brought up in 
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 the city, usually stay and are content. They im- 
 prove faster and feel better, and this encourages 
 them." 
 
 On the social side alone the advantage to them 
 would be incalculable. The comradery that camp 
 life engenders — that is so essentially a part of it, 
 would help dissipate the sense of loneliness and 
 isolation that comes over the invalid when alone, 
 and would supply one of the requisites for regain- 
 ing health. 
 
 And from every other point of view their con- 
 dition would be greatly improved. For the 
 same outlay which in town procured for them only 
 the scantiest means of existence, ill-ventilated rooms 
 and a regimen wholly inadequate and insufficient 
 to their needs, making recovery next to impossible 
 — for the same outlay, everything necessary to 
 their comfort and restoration to health could 
 be supplied in such a health camp as he had in 
 view. 
 
 The next move would be to buy a small ranch, 
 good irrigable land, on which horses, cows and 
 poultry could be kept. He had long contemplated 
 this, desiring to have a comfortable place for the 
 Deacon's wife to come to. He knew of such a 
 place near by, and would complete the purchase 
 without delay. The ranch when in running order 
 would supply the Camp with an abundance of milk 
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 and cream, butter and eggs — in short, a large part 
 of the supplies needed, and at a minimum cost. 
 
 He would also buy a tract adjoining the present 
 camp-site, so as to have plenty of room. The 
 tents now on the ground, owned by those occupy- 
 ing them could be taken care of during the sum- 
 mer for the owners, if desired, and would be ready 
 for occupancy in the fall. He would put up a 
 dozen tent-houses during the summer for new- 
 comers and have them comfortably furnished, and 
 would add to them on occasion. 
 
 His living expenses out here were nominal com- 
 pared to what he had been accustomed to. Two 
 months' income would keep him a year; the bal- 
 ance he would use in carrying on the work. By 
 intelligent planning, and the outlay of a few thou- 
 sands, results could be attained out of all propor- 
 tion to the cost and an interesting sociological 
 experiment inaugurated, which might have most 
 far-reaching results. 
 
 His sense of humor sometimes came to his aid 
 too, in these days, and helped carry the day. It 
 seemed such a delicious bit of pleasantry which he 
 had all to himself — that he, Larrimore Brans- 
 combe, well known in the Tenderloin and in the 
 Latin Quarter — that he should be living in a 
 lunger's camp doing relief work; there was some- 
 thing droll, bizarre, fantastic about it. 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Yet no! Halte4a\ Not so! The individual 
 that looked back at him from the mirror was an 
 entirely different personage from the Tenderloin 
 habitue, sometime occupant of Cell No. 9 in the 
 Tombs on a charge of manslaughter, who went 
 by that name. He well knew that, should circum- 
 stances compel him to again take up his abode in 
 New York (a most unlikely event) those places 
 that saw him once would see him no more. Some- 
 thing other than desire was swaying him now — 
 something other than duty even. Rather, he was 
 living up to a higher expectation of himself. A 
 reversion to type was taking place within him — 
 the Larrimore type. His mother had often com- 
 mented on the fact that he had the characteristics 
 of his grandfather Larrimore, and used to predict 
 that when he reached middle age he would be 
 much the kind of man she remembered her father 
 to be. Environment had much to do with his 
 mistakes in the past, but the past was now a closed 
 book and it began to look as if his mother's pre- 
 dictions might come true after all. 
 
 The most selfish of us — and it is the misfortune 
 of humankind that we are overlaid with selfish- 
 ness as is the virgin gold by the tundra — the most 
 selfish of us are capable of living nobly in the 
 intervals in which our selfishness is relegated to 
 the background. Many live and die without 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 knowing the potentialities for good within them, 
 and so, perhaps, miss the best that life has to 
 offer. Happy the mortal from whose eyes the 
 scales have fallen, who has come to a realization 
 of the high possibilities within himself. 
 
 278 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE secret of keeping young is to live in the 
 future not in the past. It is living in the 
 past that puts wrinkles on the face, dims the eye, 
 blanches the hair, renders unsteady the gait. Liv- 
 ing in the future of necessity begets hope. Plans 
 are always a part of the future; regrets belong to 
 tke past. The one is for doing, the other for 
 undoing. Hope is rightly pictured as being 
 winged. 
 
 Now that Branscombe was living subjectively, 
 the very expression of his face showed the change. 
 The serenity that looked from out his countenance 
 was in marked contrast to the unrest of the old 
 life. Now that he had closed his mind and 
 thought to the past — now that his thoughts dwelt 
 habitually in the future — the result became appar- 
 ent in his face and bearing, which showed a youth- 
 fulness and elasticity, contrasting oddly with his 
 gray-besprinkled hair. 
 
 " Padre, why are you so anxious to conceal your 
 identity in the health camp project ?" asked the 
 Deacon, coming in on him one morning while at 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 work on his plans. He was standing at his impro- 
 vised drawing table, whistling softly to himself, at 
 peace with all the world. When at work he usually 
 kept the curtain down over his screen door, an 
 indication that he was either absent or occupied. 
 The Deacon, however, being a privileged char- 
 acter, usually came and went as he liked. 
 
 Branscombe had recently effected the purchase 
 of his ranch, and was busy planning alterations 
 and improvements to adapt it to the new purpose 
 for which it was intended. He had, as a matter 
 of necessity, taken his partner into his confidence, 
 but had asked him to say nothing to the others 
 about it, giving out that the ranch was for his 
 personal use in accordance with plans formed on 
 first coming. They would know the circumstances 
 another winter in any event, but in the interval, it 
 suited him better to keep the matter quiet. 
 
 The party from whom the ranch had been pur- 
 chased was leaving for California, and everything, 
 including live-stock and poultry, went with it. He 
 now found himself in possession of half a dozen 
 cows, several horses, and a few hundred fowls. 
 
 " We all do too much talking," responded 
 Branscombe to the Deacon's query, " and in this 
 kind of thing, when there's much talk, it generally 
 ends where it begins — in talk. It's much the best 
 way to go ahead and do things and keep your 
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 mouth shut. One cannot stop others from talking, 
 but one doesn't need to do it oneself. I have 
 noticed," he went on, " that talking about a proj- 
 ect, instead of helping it along, generally stops 
 it. My fowls display many of the characteristics 
 of human beings. Often the cackling that is done 
 in the poultry yard on account of a single egg that 
 is laid, is only paralleled by the commotion some 
 people make over their petty achievements." 
 
 11 That's so," put in White, who appeared in 
 the doorway in time to overhear the last sentence, 
 " but you shouldn't forget that there's another 
 sort of hen which will quietly steal her nest, lay 
 a baker's dozen of eggs, turn them into chickens 
 in due course of time, and immediately go about 
 obtaining a living for them without making any 
 fuss about it whatever." 
 
 " I haven't had enough experience with fowls 
 yet to have heard about that kind. I've always 
 lived in big cities, where you never see them 
 until they are stuffed and roasted," replied Brans- 
 combe. 
 
 " You see, Padre, how easy it is to be mis- 
 taken," put in the Deacon. " You've been reason- 
 ing from insufficient data, like all people who jump 
 to conclusions." 
 
 " You always have data enough when you talk 
 about the weather! Whew! isn't it hot though! 
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 There's nothing problematical about that. And 
 they say that it gets hotter than this in July," 
 offered White, who, in flannel trousers and fishnet 
 shirt, was vainly endeavoring to be comfortable. 
 
 The question of where to pass the summer, 
 toyed with all winter, imminent all spring, was 
 indeed becoming imperative. A few of the camp- 
 ers had already left for the East, and some of the 
 others had gone to Prescott, the higher altitude 
 of which rendered the climate more equable. A 
 general exodus seemed about to occur. 
 
 Two fellows, Walter Howland and Arthur 
 Wilkinson, had pooled their issues, purchased a 
 team of bronchos and were to start for the hills 
 in a few days. Fillmore had endeavored to dis- 
 suade them from the project, on the score of the 
 injury to health which generally resulted when in- 
 valids took these trips, but had failed to convince 
 them. He had been giving occasional afternoon 
 talks to the campers and other health-seekers in 
 the vicinity, on the subject of their common ail- 
 ment, one of which had been devoted to counter- 
 acting the tendency of some of the younger men 
 to " hike off to the hills," as they expressed it, 
 with the advent of summer. He had confirmed 
 his own impressions on the subject by data obtained 
 from a well-known physician in town in which spe- 
 cific instances were given of deaths resulting from 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 the hardships incidental to such a trip in a coun- 
 try like Arizona. 
 
 White supplemented him in the effort. " Give 
 it up, Willie," he urged. " Roughing it is not for 
 invalids. To ride over poor roads in the hot sun 
 eight or ten hours a day with the poor fare and 
 the hard beds that you get on the road — it's bound 
 to injure you." 
 
 Arthur Wilkinson was a young man of sanguine 
 temperament, red hair, and an almost diaphanous 
 complexion. His chances for recovery were not 
 considered good. 
 
 u We're not going to rough it, we'll take it 
 easy." 
 
 " You'll have heavy rainstorms to contend 
 with," warned White. " It's a different proposi- 
 tion camping in Arizona in summer than what it 
 is in winter. When you are on the road you can't 
 put up a tent, and there are few trees even to 
 afford shelter. You'll get soaked through many 
 a time. Give it up and go to Southern California 
 with the party from Camp Bowlegs. They'll have 
 things in good shape there." 
 
 " If we don't like it, we'll drop it. We've got 
 the team now, and ought to make a try at it after 
 all the talking we've done," rejoined Wilkinson. 
 
 " Hot as it is here," persisted White, " you 
 would do better to stay right here than to attempt 
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 such a trip. You need rest. This, in importance, 
 comes next to pure air and diet. In your case 
 absolute rest would be the thing. You ought to 
 lie on your back for a few weeks on account of 
 your temperature. Get rid of that anyway, before 
 starting." 
 
 White's protests were of no avail, and it was 
 with foreboding that the others bade them adieu 
 a few days later. 
 
 Fillmore, going into town with Branscombe on 
 the morning following his return from Bowlegs, 
 acquainted him with the project of the summer 
 camp in California and of the proposition to par- 
 ticipate in it, which greatly interested him, as he 
 foresaw. Branscombe decided that his partner 
 should go at all events, and also intended urging 
 him to have his wife join him there. There would 
 probably not be much for her to do in the way of 
 teaching during the summer, he reflected, at the 
 old home, and since she was to come sooner or 
 later it might much better be at once. 
 
 On his return to Camp he sought out the Dea- 
 con and broached the subject to him. 
 
 " Two of the Bowlegs people," he said, " have 
 gone on to California to look up a site for a sum- 
 mer camp. As soon as this is determined on, they 
 will communicate with us. I think you had better 
 avail yourself of the opportunity." 
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 11 I'll see about it," was the Deacon's response. 
 "Shall you be able to go?" 
 
 u Not just yet, but I'll come later," he assured 
 him. 
 
 The Deacon had not been doing so well of 
 late. The thermometer had begun to show from 
 two to three degrees of temperature each after- 
 noon during the past week. Hitherto it had been 
 normal, at least since he had been living with 
 Branscombe. This periodic rise in temperature, 
 always a grave symptom in the disease, can often 
 be warded off, at least in good part, by absolute 
 rest. At Fillmore's suggestion, he lay down each 
 afternoon, and was told, at the same time, that if 
 it did not abate by the end of the week, it would 
 be advisable for him to keep to his bed entirely 
 for the following two weeks. 
 
 14 I'd been thinking it might be possible to stick 
 it out here this summer," mused his partner: 
 " I'm comfortable as things go. I've always liked 
 warm weather. Think of the inertia to be 
 overcome, to break up and locate in a new place 
 six or eight hundred miles away among new 
 people." 
 
 " It's the piano that attracts you here, I sup- 
 pose," said Branscombe. " But it will be better 
 for you to take a rest from that too. Get well 
 first ! You're living too much on your nerve force. 
 
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 Go to California and imagine you're taking a 
 
 vacation." 
 
 A wan smile, in derision of himself as much as 
 at his partner's words, was the Deacon's only 
 answer. 
 
 " You couldn't stay here all summer," Brans- 
 combe admonished. " I've learned that much 
 from the ranchmen here. The temperature that 
 you are running now is due as much to the heat, 
 I think, as to your piano practice. You ought to 
 get away from both. You shouldn't attempt to 
 stay. You can't afford to take the risk. If you 
 stayed here even half the summer, you'd be glad 
 to capitulate and leave then. Better go with the 
 others. The Latimer boys are going and proba- 
 bly one or two more from here." 
 
 " How will you stand it? " asked the Deacon. 
 
 With a delicacy that had not originally been a 
 part of Branscombe's make-up, he refrained from 
 reminding his partner that he, as a healthy man, 
 might stand with impunity that which would be 
 injurious to the other. " I don't intend staying 
 here throughout the summer," he reminded him. 
 " I'll stand it as long as possible, so as to get the 
 work well under way; then I'll go away for per- 
 haps two months. I shall have to go to Los An- 
 geles anyway to make some purchases, after which 
 I'll come to the summer camp for a while." 
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 After a pause he went on: 
 
 14 Why don't you have your wife join you in 
 California when you're settled ? She can't do much 
 with her music during the summer. Since she in- 
 tends coming in the fall in any event, she might 
 anticipate it by a few months. The Summer Camp 
 will be pleasant for her, as there will be la- 
 dies there. She really ought to go as chaper- 
 one, as otherwise there will be no married lady 
 there." 
 
 The Deacon had no more objections to offer. 
 " All right," said he, " I'll write her today. It 
 may take her some time to get ready." 
 
 " You had better take things quietly in the in- 
 terval before starting. The others will be ready 
 to go in about two weeks I think. You ought to 
 manage if possible to get rid of your temperature 
 before making the trip. Remember, you will have 
 to spend a night in the sleeping-car, and will be 
 twenty- four hours en route; you ought to be in 
 good trim when you leave. 
 
 u From what I understand," continued Brans- 
 combe, " it is the purpose of the Bowlegs people 
 to make a permanent Summer Camp there. They 
 intend buying land as soon as they find something 
 suitable. When the purchase is consummated, a 
 piano would not be one of the impossibilities. I 
 believe you will be very comfortable there." 
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 " Yes, but it's a long journey for a few months' 
 stay," grumbled his partner good-naturedly. 
 
 " I should think one might find as equable a 
 winter climate in the desert region of Southern 
 California as is to be found in Arizona, and it 
 would only be a short journey to the habitable 
 parts of the country when summer comes. ,, 
 
 " The doctors have a theory that the farther 
 you get into the interior, away from the ocean, 
 the better," answered the Deacon. 
 
 " That may be all right for tuberculosis while 
 the cure is being made, but in general, the nearer 
 the sea the more vigorous the health of the av- 
 erage individual. Goethe had already observed 
 this, saying that he considered all islanders and 
 inhabitants of the seashore in temperate climes 
 far more productive and possessed of more active 
 force than the people in the interior of large con- 
 tinents." 
 
 11 My physician was very decided in the mat- 
 ter," rejoined the Deacon. " I brought up the 
 subject of California myself, and he said you 
 would find as many people from the Pacific slope 
 in Arizona, brought there on account of tuber- 
 culosis, as from any other part of the country." 
 
 " Rather a case of drawing false conclusions 
 from right premises," said Branscombe. " The 
 Pacific slope is of vast extent. While it is no 
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 doubt damp immediately on the coast, this does 
 not apply to the interior valleys of Southern Cali- 
 fornia, which was the section I had in mind. The 
 summer climate of California in general, aside 
 from the desert region, is the finest on earth I am 
 told." 
 
 289 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 DICK was essentially a man of action, the 
 anti-type of the dreamer and thinker, and 
 always took time by the forelock. The tendency 
 to postponement, that snare of those who think 
 rather than act, had no part or lot with him. 
 When anything had to be done, the best way was 
 to go straightway and do it. If you desired any- 
 thing particularly, the obvious thing to do, it 
 seemed to him, was immediately to strive and work 
 toward its attainment. With his faculty of initia- 
 tive, or rather his power to overcome inertia — 
 this factor which moves the world — it seemed diffi- 
 cult to understand why people should postpone 
 doing things that ought to be done, or having 
 things that seemed desirable to have, as so many 
 did, until their realization became impracticable. 
 " Whilst the water of life is within reach, die not 
 of thirst," said Hafiz, a precept which Dick would 
 heartily have indorsed had it come to his notice. 
 Action, even in little things, was of more impor- 
 tance in his philosophy, than plans and hopes for 
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 heroic enterprises, which may never come to frui- 
 tion. Since it was the medium through which all 
 achievement comes to pass, action became to him 
 the highest virtue. 
 
 When a realization of his disease first came on 
 him, Dick spent no time in bewailing it. He took 
 a thorough survey of the situation and then laid 
 a comprehensive plan to meet it. Fortunately he 
 had sufficient funds to enable him to enter a sana- 
 torium, which he did at once, realizing that a week 
 of treatment on the start is equal to months of it 
 afterward, when the disease has been allowed to 
 establish a foothold. Here he was a most tract- 
 able patient except that he could not rest content 
 until he had read up thoroughly the subject per- 
 taining to his disease. The importance of alimen- 
 tation had not at that time received the attention 
 that it now does, but, reasoning by analogy, he 
 made his inferences, and studied dietetics, which 
 enabled him to keep his stomach in good condition. 
 The correctness of his position was demonstrated 
 by the record which he established; he made the 
 most satisfactory progress of any patient there, 
 and was, so to speak, at the head of his class while 
 he remained. On leaving the institution, he did 
 not take his chances of city life, as many another 
 would have done under the circumstances, but 
 proceeded at once to Arizona, where he had re- 
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 mained ever since, except for an outing in Cali- 
 fornia the previous summer. 
 
 11 What do you think of the region around 
 Bakersfield? " asked the physician, as he and Dick 
 were discussing the topic of the Summer Camp 
 while speeding westward. 
 
 " Rather warm, I should say." 
 
 " We might stop off there for a day or two if 
 you like." 
 
 " It's got so late in the season that we'll have 
 to economize time as much as possible," reminded 
 Dick. " We ought to make our selection with- 
 in a week at least from the time we leave the 
 train." 
 
 "The foothill country; wonder if that would 
 answer," mused Myers. 
 
 11 It has its advantages," replied Dick. 
 " There's a fine section about a day's ride from 
 Fresno — the Kings River country. There are 
 ideal places here for our purpose, but I didn't 
 want to go so far. I liked the wheat country in 
 the San Joaquin Valley, too, but that's about as 
 far, and I suppose would be considered too hot. 
 It did not seem so to us, while driving through it, 
 however. All in all, the foothill country would 
 probably be the best, take it the summer through." 
 
 " My experience of California is confined to 
 Los Angeles and San Diego, and that only in 
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 winter. I'm not of much use in this part of the 
 work." 
 
 u The wheat fields make a beautiful environ- 
 ment," said Dick. " Seldom will one see anything 
 in nature that appeals so to one's sense of the 
 beautiful. The prevailing tone is the yellow of 
 the waving grain or stubble. Sprinkled all about 
 on this yellow groundwork is the dark green of 
 the live-oaks, while above is the intense blue of 
 the sky. There is usually some breeze, and the 
 polished leaves of the live-oaks glisten in the sun 
 like prisms. 
 
 14 Bowlegs is at an altitude of about two thou- 
 sand feet," he continued, " which would seem to 
 be a reason for locating the Summer Camp some- 
 where near sea-level, so as to give them a more 
 radical change of air." 
 
 " You say there is no rain or dew in summer 
 in these interior valleys. With a good hot sun 
 above, it would be sure to be dry enough any- 
 where, one would think," said Myers. After a 
 pause he continued: "If we could find an un- 
 occupied ranch-house, it would be just the thing. 
 There would be shade trees about and also a well, 
 and the house would come in handy for cooking. 
 Such a place could be rented for the summer, and 
 if the region were found satisfactory, the purchase 
 could be consummated later." 
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 " We saw a number of such places last summer, 
 while on the Yosemite trip," replied Dick. 
 " There had been some dry years previously, and, 
 where irrigation was not practicable, the owners, 
 becoming discouraged, had left. We camped - 
 overnight at such places several times; we were 
 always sure of water and generally fruit." 
 
 " Just the thing," affirmed the physician. 
 
 " I remember one such place in particular," 
 continued Dick, " but it was pretty far north, well 
 on toward Stockton. An old man lived there all 
 alone, acting as caretaker of the place. He did 
 some gardening and kept chickens. He made us 
 welcome and gave us all the figs we wanted for the 
 picking. There was also plenty of peaches and 
 plums. The house didn't amount to much, but it 
 was just embowered in fruit trees." 
 
 " A summer camp in such a place," said Myers, 
 11 would be like the monks of Theleme." 
 
 Dick had never heard of the monks of Theleme, 
 so he held his peace. 
 
 " Had you a tent on your trip last summer? " 
 
 " We had one, but didn't use it," replied Dick. 
 11 We made our camp wherever night overtook 
 us, or rather, wherever we could get water. We 
 generally retired early, getting out our sleep- 
 ing-bags soon after the evening meal was over. 
 We slept so soundly while on the trip that we 
 294 
 
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 were always glad when sleep-time came around 
 again." 
 
 "How were the nights? Were they ever too 
 warm in the valley? " 
 
 " Not that I remember. The difficulty in gen- 
 eral was to be warm enough. We always slept 
 on the ground. We entered the Yosemite Valley 
 by the southerly or Wawona route," he went 
 on narratively, " camping overnight at Wawona. 
 This is pretty well up into the mountains, and it 
 was cold at night, colder than we liked. It's cold 
 in the Yosemite Valley, too. The floor of the 
 valley is four thousand feet above sea-level, and is 
 surrounded by snow-capped mountains. It's sure 
 to be cold at night under such conditions. We 
 didn't suffer from the cold while in the valley, 
 as we had plenty of firewood, and made large 
 camp-fires each night. We kept early hours when 
 on the road, as I have said, but not while we were 
 in the Yosemite Valley; the camp-fire was too en- 
 ticing. We used to sit about it, telling stories, 
 discussing the trip or speculating on the route to 
 be taken when leaving the valley. Sometimes 
 other campers would visit us for an hour or two, 
 attracted by the blaze. When we left the valley 
 it was by way of the Big Oak Flat route, a hard 
 road. We camped the first night on the rim, eight 
 thousand feet above sea-level, with snow all about 
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 us, as it was early in the season. In the East this 
 kind of thing would have been considered a great 
 hardship, but we didn't mind it." 
 
 II You were taking chances of a setback, don't 
 you think? " asked the doctor. 
 
 u No, I'd been living in the open air nearly two 
 years before and was immune to anything of that 
 kind," replied Dick. " I was as well then as I 
 ever had been, and had been accepted for life 
 insurance just before." 
 
 II I think I should like to try the region east of 
 Bakersfield," declared Dick, after a short pause, 
 " making that town a base of supplies. The Kern 
 River country is within a day's drive of there. It 
 is foothill country, and I believe a good ranching 
 section. Five or six hundred feet above sea-level 
 will do no harm. We ought to be near a good 
 ranch country. We'd better leave the train at 
 Bakersfield." 
 
 On arriving there, they proceeded at once to a 
 sale stable in quest of a horse and buggy. Dick 
 had a good eye for a horse, and was not easily 
 suited, as the outfit to be purchased now was to 
 be retained for the use of the campers during the 
 summer. After trying several, he finally made 
 his selection, but it used up the better part of the 
 first day, so they decided to remain in town over- 
 night and make an early start in the morning. 
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 They brought their sleeping-bags with them and a 
 small camping outfit. 
 
 11 It will be fine to make a permanent thing of 
 this Summer Camp," began Myers, when they 
 were under way the following morning; " extend- 
 ing its privileges to others outside our own circle." 
 
 11 We must have a ranch in connection, where 
 we can raise walnuts as well as fruits," said the 
 practical Dick. " We ought to produce all the 
 fruits, both fresh and dried, as well as vegetables, 
 that we shall require for the Camp. Of course 
 the milk, eggs and poultry needed should come 
 from our ranch. 
 
 11 Such a ranch," continued Dick, " might be 
 made in a measure self-supporting; the graduates 
 could remain on it all the year through and help 
 carry it on. Only the hardest work would have 
 to be hired. The amount spent for walnuts, eggs 
 and other food supplies that can be produced on 
 a ranch, and which are required in a health camp 
 is considerable." 
 
 A ranch which seemed promising was finally 
 found a few miles out from Belleair, the terminus 
 of a short railroad going into Bakersfield. It was 
 within an hour's run to town. There was a small 
 house, and plenty of fruit such as figs, prunes, 
 peaches and grapes. Walnut trees too were scat- 
 tered about, but as the nuts would not ripen until 
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 nearly the time for leaving the Camp, not much 
 benefit would be derived from them the first sea- 
 son. There was also a good well of water. 
 
 Dick planned to have a porch constructed abut- 
 ting onto the house, the roof of which was to be 
 utilized by the ladies for sleeping purposes. Ac- 
 cess to it was to be had from the attic of the house. 
 It was to be of generous dimensions, and the floor 
 below would be used as a dining-room. Trees 
 screened it from the road, and on the upper part, 
 where they were to sleep, spring roller-curtains 
 were to be hung a few feet above the railing, 
 which could be fastened down in case this was 
 desired. The attic would serve as a dressing-room. 
 The kitchen was put in good shape and a China- 
 man engaged to do the cooking. A kitchen tent 
 was also to be put up, to enable the ladies to do 
 some of the cooking, should they desire to do so. 
 Nothing was to be done to the interior of the house. 
 With the rooms unfurnished, there would be no 
 temptation to remain indoors. 
 
 The use of the place was obtained rent-free for 
 the summer, in consideration of the repairs and 
 improvements to be made there. If satisfied with 
 the location, the purchase was to be effected before 
 leaving on their return to Arizona in the fall. 
 
 As soon as the location had been determined on, 
 Dick wrote for the party to come on. Camp 
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 fittings of all kinds were to be had in Bakersfield 
 and he felt sure he could have everything in readi- 
 ness by the time they should arrive. In all that 
 he did, in every plan formed for the comfort of 
 the party, Dick had the stimulus of Nancy's pic- 
 ture dancing before his mental vision, and he 
 achieved wonders in the short time at his disposal. 
 
 Immediately on receipt of Dick's letter at Bow- 
 legs, preparations for the exodus began. The vis- 
 itors had been happy there, it seemed to them on 
 reviewing the circumstances of the past months. 
 At least there had been peace of mind, — which, 
 for an invalid, is the equivalent of happiness. The 
 circumstances under which they now lived, and the 
 improvement in health that each had made, con- 
 duced toward hopefulness. Although some had 
 periods of loneliness and homesickness at first, 
 these were soon dispelled by the kindly attentions 
 of the miners, their hosts, who seemed to make 
 the comfort of their guests their first thought. 
 They had settled into a rut and were content. Now 
 they were to try new scenes, and misgivings as to 
 the outcome assailed some of them at the prospect. 
 
 On account of the heat it was decided to make 
 the wagon trip to town by night, as is the custom 
 in Arizona in summer. They left the Camp at 
 nine o'clock, Berkely and Fullerton leading the 
 way on horseback, the ladies following in a wagon. 
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 The recent showers had laid the dust to some ex- 
 tent, and made the roadbed harder. There was a 
 down grade for the most part, and they counted 
 on making the trip in comparative comfort. They 
 were to ride until three o'clock or until the moon 
 went down, upon which they would make a camp 
 until daylight. Although the stars would give 
 enough light to enable these practiced men to find 
 the way, it was deemed best to lay to for the short 
 interval until daylight, to enable the ladies to get 
 rest and refreshment. 
 
 Occasionally Berkely or Fullerton would spur 
 on ahead for the purpose of setting fire to the 
 thorns of the giant saguaro, the dryness of which 
 caused the blaze to completely envelop the huge 
 cactus for a few moments. Or they would make 
 a bon-fire of a patch of greasewood, the resin- 
 coated leaves and twigs of which lent themselves 
 readily for this purpose. A brilliant moon threw 
 objects into strange half-lights, now revealing a 
 belated blossom on the crest of the giant saguaro, 
 or shimmering through the needlelike foliage of 
 the other desert growth. Delicate odors from 
 blossoming plants were wafted to them at inter- 
 vals. An unreal, mystical quality pervaded the 
 landscape as if the genii were in possession. Many 
 a mesa on the way seemed enchanted under the 
 spell of the desert night 1 
 
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 To these desert sojourners, the splendor of the 
 night was no novelty, but it would never get to be 
 an old story either. The phenomena of Nature 
 often become one of the resources of the invalid, 
 whose sole hope rests on an outdoor life. They 
 were silent for the most part, each under the spell 
 of thought that comes when old scenes and condi- 
 tions are being left behind, and new ones entered 
 on. 
 
 The thoughts of each were busy with the inci- 
 dents of their stay while at Bowlegs. Nancy's 
 were not so entirely centered on Dick and the 
 twenty-page letter he had written as to prevent 
 them from roving to other subjects — to the silent 
 devotion of the " boys " which had been expressed 
 in numberless little acts of goodwill, not alone to 
 her but to her companions as well, but which she 
 had appropriated almost unconsciously. 
 
 She dwelt too on the agreeable fact of her im- 
 proved health and all that it meant to her. This 
 brought her thoughts to Dick again, from which 
 they glanced off to a consideration of her trousseau. 
 After her marriage she would live in town a good 
 part of the time, she hoped; the desert was well 
 enough for a while, but she would have quite 
 enough of it by the time her cure was effected. 
 
 Less agreeable were the thoughts of one of her 
 companions, Miss Travis. The Camp had been 
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 a haven of rest to her, and it was with reluctance, 
 amounting almost to a superstition, that she found 
 herself leaving it. She had been a schoolmistress 
 in Chicago with a widowed mother to support. 
 She had added to her income by giving lessons to 
 adults in her spare time, and this burning of the 
 candle at both ends had the usual result, her health 
 giving way at last under the strain. 
 
 When unable to work longer the little home had 
 to be broken up. With a portion of the proceeds 
 from the sale of her household effects she secured 
 a shelter for her mother, who was old and infirm, 
 in a " Home." With the remainder, she felt free 
 to go to Arizona, trusting that her money would 
 last until her health was so far recovered as to 
 enable her to take up her vocation as teacher again. 
 She had secured board at a ranch, and with the 
 utmost economy, had managed to make her money 
 last nearly to the time when the opportunity of 
 going to Bowlegs was offered her. 
 
 But the interval — that time of anxiety, of need, 
 in which she saw her health slipping away again 
 owing to insufficient food and worry — it made her 
 sick with dread to think of it. She had not known 
 where to turn or how to extricate herself from the 
 difficulties by which she was surrounded. Posi- 
 tions as teachers were given out only from the 
 beginning of the term, as she well knew, but she 
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 had hoped to have a chance to act as substitute, 
 and was waiting in town in a furnished room for 
 this, when the other issue presented itself. 
 
 The miners would never know — could never 
 •divine from what abysmal depths of suffering they 
 had rescued her. The respectful deference, the 
 rough courtesy, the silent homage which character- 
 ized their demeanor toward her had made them 
 seem almost godlike. In her imagination they 
 were vikings, these strong, efficient men, who had 
 made the earth yield up her secrets, and who 
 seemed so unconscious of the importance of their 
 achievement. In her chaste, reserved way she 
 worshipped them all for the splendid qualities she 
 attributed to them. 
 
 In especial, she remembered Fullerton's thought- 
 fulness in offering his services in the way of making 
 purchases for her whenever he had occasion to go 
 to town. How well-disposed he was ! What na- 
 tive kindliness ! She had never thought that men 
 could be like this. ! She felt it a hardship to leave 
 the Camp where she had met with such kindness. 
 She had associated very little with men in the 
 thirty-two years of her existence, having early set- 
 tled down to the life of an old maid. It was new 
 and passing strange to her, the attitude of these 
 men toward women. She had never thought that 
 men were of this sort. In her prejudices against 
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 them, carefully implanted and inculcated by her 
 mother, whose own marriage had not been a happy 
 one, she had hitherto been fairly content, but now 
 she began to perceive that she had reasoned from 
 insufficient data, and sometimes felt that she had 
 missed the best in life in so withdrawing herself 
 from their society. All the feminine instincts, love 
 of the home, the desire to beautify and enrich an- 
 other's life, the inclination of the unselfish femi- 
 nine nature to make sacrifices for others, began to 
 assert themselves in the benignant atmosphere in 
 which she had been living. 
 
 The improvement in her health had been pro- 
 nounced while at Bowlegs. The pure, dry air, the 
 healthful diet, the freedom from anxiety — all con- 
 tributed to this result. Should she make like 
 progress during the summer, she felt that it would 
 be possible to take up her work again in the au- 
 tumn, but the prospect was not a pleasant one, she 
 reflected, while she blushed at the thought, and 
 chided herself for thinking so much on these 
 subjects. The position of teacher had been con- 
 ditionally promised her, and Dick, importuned 
 thereto by Miss Berkely, was to attend to the mat- 
 ter of securing it for her in her absence. 
 
 The night wore on. The sky was cloudless and 
 thickly studded with stars. The temperature was 
 perfect. The travelers had slept a few hours in 
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 the afternoon, and were in good mood to enjoy 
 the trip and the novel conditions under which it 
 was being made. When the moon had set, a little 
 after three, and they made their temporary camp, 
 it was as if the last scene of a drama had been 
 enacted. The remainder of the journey, made in 
 daylight, and through level ranch country for the 
 most part, would be commonplace in comparison. 
 
 Some of the boys, on returning from a previous 
 trip to town, had cached some firewood at this 
 point, in anticipation of the camp being made here. 
 When within a few miles of it, Fullerton pushed 
 on ahead, and when the party arrived, they were 
 cheered with a camp-fire of mesquite wood. Coffee 
 was also in readiness, he having brought his can- 
 teen and a coffee-pot at the saddle-bow. 
 
 The travelers brought their blankets in the 
 wagon; they would be needed at the Summer 
 Camp, and would come in handy on the trip. 
 When the repast was finished, they wrapped up 
 and disposed themselves about the camp-fire, Ful- 
 lerton and Berkely entertaining them with stories 
 of mining adventures, until it was time to make 
 another start. 
 
 They reached town in good season, and, as 
 
 there was no train out until evening, the party 
 
 went to a hotel for the day. Berkely intended 
 
 going to California with the party, while Fuller- 
 
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 ton, after spending a day or two with White, was 
 to return to Bowlegs. It was, too, a part of his 
 mission to notify the Deacon of the arrival of the 
 others, so that he could proceed with them, White 
 having written to Bowlegs of the Deacon's inten- 
 tion of summering with them. 
 
 When Fullerton reached the Camp he found 
 White busy with his writing. After the greetings 
 had been exchanged, and the message given the 
 Deacon, he asked him about the novel. 
 
 " I've abandoned it," White informed him. " I 
 began to find that I had bitten off more than I 
 could chew I I'm not in physical trim for any 
 long-continued effort. I have, instead, been try- 
 ing my hand at a short story, and find this quite 
 enough. Thought, as has been said, is produced 
 by blood pressure on the brain, and I can well 
 believe it. The more concentrated the thinking, 
 the greater the flow of blood to the brain, and the 
 stomach is thereby robbed. A lunger has to con- 
 sider his digestion. Superalimentation and nutri- 
 tion play an important part in recovery. As it is, 
 I am at present able to eat only about one-half 
 the amount I ordinarily do and it's on account of 
 this story. Any concentration is bad for an in- 
 valid. It takes too much out of one." 
 
 "Shall you stay here this summer?" 
 
 " For a while longer, anyway. The story's 
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 about done, but it seems as if it would never be 
 finished. I'm unable to present it as it stood 
 out in my imagination when I first conceived it. 
 There's a something which I aim for, but do not 
 attain. It eludes me. I keep adding to it in the 
 way of interlineations, which makes it necessary 
 to blue-pencil other parts. Then the page looks 
 like a hieroglyphic, and has to be re-written. And 
 it's telling on me. I'm running a little tempera- 
 ture." 
 
 " You'll try to tell me next that it's as hard as 
 mining." 
 
 " Man, it's like boiler-making. You just have 
 to keep hammering. It isn't so much talent that 
 makes the writer; it's just hammering. Of course 
 he must have ability — some natural talent and in- 
 clination, but this won't help him much unless he 
 wants to work, work harder than a farmer or a 
 shoemaker. It's so in all creative work, I fancy," 
 continued White, launched on a hobby, unmindful 
 whether his auditor understood him. " The writer 
 may be the scribe of all nature, as Thoreau averred, 
 but so is the sculptor, or the painter, or the 
 musician, and it's not an easy job for any of them. 
 Good work isn't to be done easily. The race is to 
 the strong, not to the swift." 
 
 White loved flowing periods and well-rounded 
 sentences. He had been working them off on Fill- 
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 more all along, and was glad now to have another 
 auditor. 
 
 "But it's interesting; man, it's interesting, this 
 kind of work," he continued. " If it were twice 
 as hard I'd still want to keep at it ! The greatest 
 pleasure of any worker doing work worthy the 
 name, is in his work, but it's a pleasure he don't 
 get cheaply. He pays for it with his life-blood." 
 
 11 This man Thoreau was a naturalist, or rather 
 a nature-worshipper, wasn't he?" mused Fuller- 
 ton. 
 
 White mentally approved the distinction, and 
 nodded affirmatively. He waited for the other to 
 go on. Fullerton had, on several occasions, sur- 
 prised him with his side-lights on literature, and 
 White, with the instinct of the journalist, restrained 
 his own inclination to talk, so as to give his com- 
 panion a chance, seeing that it was a case where 
 the compensation exceeded the sacrifice. 
 
 " I'd read portions of his journals in the maga- 
 zines, and was so much interested that I ordered 
 his works. Now that I'm stationary and better 
 fixed financially, I'm collecting a little library. The 
 nature-books that are now flooding the market 
 seem to be mostly an imitation of Thoreau, and it 
 seems to me he drew his inspiration from the 
 classics. One would think from some of these later 
 books, that nature-study was an invention that 
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 came in with the twentieth century; he shows that 
 the Greeks and Romans gave the first impulse 
 toward it." 
 
 The life of solitude peculiar to men situated like 
 Fullerton fosters a habit of reading, which in turn 
 engenders thought. Their isolation gives them 
 the time not only to take in thoughts, but to digest 
 them. They deal with elemental things. It was 
 the shepherds on the slopes of Chaldea who in- 
 augurated astronomy. 
 
 " Yes," agreed White, " this Nature, which is 
 so be-praised and be-written as if it were a new 
 invention or discovery, has from earliest times on 
 inspired those a little above the common herd." 
 
 " But Thoreau went further, didn't he? " ven- 
 tured Fullerton tentatively. " He was the first, 
 wasn't he, to take the rights of animals into con- 
 sideration? He even gave up fishing, saying it 
 was always accompanied by some loss of self- 
 respect." 
 
 11 And he never used a gun," agreed White sen- 
 tentiously. 
 
 " If he'd lived in Arizona in the early days, he'd 
 had to learn to shoot straight with a quick aim like 
 any other, you bet!" rejoined Fullerton, lapsing 
 back to more simple things, and speaking from a 
 personal knowledge of his subject. 
 
 He had brought his blankets, intending to re- 
 309 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 main a day or two, and readily made himself at 
 home in the Camp. As stated, most of the others 
 had already left, dispersing to their homes, or in 
 quest of a cooler clime. Branscombe and his part- 
 ner were in town, the latter intending to leave on 
 the night train for California, with the party from 
 Bowlegs, so that the Camp was almost deserted. 
 
 The noonday meal had been eaten, and White 
 and his companion, sitting under the shade of the 
 cottonwoods, to which spot the other tents had 
 been moved, following Branscombe's example, re- 
 sumed their conversation of the morning. The 
 miner, laying in store of entertainment against the 
 summer, began: 
 
 " You haven't told me about your short story. 
 What's it about? " 
 
 " I'll read it to you if you like," offered White. 
 " It's about my partner with whom I made the 
 trip to Prescott last summer." 
 
 For answer, the miner settled himself more com- 
 fortably in the easy chair, and puffed away at his 
 after-dinner cigar. White, seating himself near 
 his companion, began the story of Blakeslee; but 
 this will take us into another chapter. 
 
 310 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE amethystine bulk of San Antony, loom- 
 ing up out of the plains on the Arizona 
 desert beholds much of human emotion, of the 
 joys and sorrows of life, of the loneliness and 
 homesickness inseparable to an invalid's life in a 
 strange country, for under its shadow, many an 
 invalid having journeyed from afar, seeks shelter 
 and restoration to health. With its constant in- 
 vitation it beguiles many an otherwise weary hour 
 for such of the sojourners having eyes to see, hold- 
 ing out hope or giving back consolation in return 
 for the sadness it so often beholds. 
 
 The element of beauty is always present in Ari- 
 zona, although it requires the discerning eye to 
 perceive it. Every day the bright sun floods the 
 plains with a radiance as of summer. The level 
 floor of the desert, be-sprinkled with mesquite trees, 
 is spangled between the clusters of dry sagebrush 
 with delicate flowers already in February. On 
 every side the horizon is bounded by the sharply 
 serrated outlines of encircling mountains bare to 
 
 3ii 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 the summit except for the giant saguaro and an 
 occasional patch of greasewood. 
 
 But for these mountains, Blakeslee sometimes 
 thought, during the first month of his tarrying on 
 the desert, life here would be well-nigh impossible. 
 Encircling his horizon, they seemed omnipresent; 
 on the darkest nights he could perceive their huge 
 outlines, blackly looming up in the dim light of the 
 stars. Not an hour of the day but that they seemed 
 to take on new and variant phases which charmed 
 him. Beauty pervaded them, mystery lurked in 
 their fastnesses, and he often sought to conquer 
 their distances by the aid of his field-glass. They 
 excited his interest and imagination as nothing had 
 done since his sickness had come upon him. With 
 his artist's sensibilities, alive to all the gradations 
 of their panoramic effects, they proved to be his 
 best resource. It was even chances that he was 
 ever to get away from this valley again, and he 
 made the most of them. They invited and chal- 
 lenged him to come to them if he could, and he 
 always intended responding, should he ever get 
 back his strength. 
 
 He often mused of the period now past, when 
 the Pimas and Navajoes were in possession, hunt- 
 ing and camping under their shadow; of the time 
 when their retreat was invaded by the missionaries; 
 simple, God-fearing men, who went forth into the 
 312 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 vast unknown at the bidding of the Inner Voice, 
 enduring incredible dangers and hardships, doing 
 and daring so much, achieving, alas ! so little, and 
 that little even, to be so soon obliterated. Some- 
 how it was a consolation to him, the reflection that 
 nothing whatever remained for all their trouble. 
 " Like my own case," he sometimes thought, but 
 without bitterness, impersonally. 
 
 To the east lies the Superstition range — name 
 pregnant with meaning, eloquent of the prospec- 
 tor's mind and thought, embodiment of the cumu- 
 lative fears and dangers of his life. Blakeslee's 
 fancy often pictured the tales he had heard of the 
 solitary prospector penetrating these fastnesses, 
 never to emerge, dying of thirst and loneliness, all 
 at the lure of gold or adventure. Or his gaze 
 would traverse the range that lies in the way of the 
 Verde country to the northeast — land of promise 
 where he hoped to spend the coming summer. His 
 imagination always pictured it a region of pine 
 trees and running water, with herds of sheep and 
 cattle and prosperous ranches. 
 
 On the days when no letters came, when but 
 one or two human beings appeared on his horizon 
 — and there were enough such days — Blakeslee 
 was sometimes overwhelmed with the bootlessness 
 of the struggle he was making, and the tempta- 
 tion to let himself go — to give up the unequal 
 313 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 combat, would loom up big within him. Then 
 perchance, his gaze would take in the mountains, 
 and looking up into their transfigured heights, he 
 would lose himself in simple wonderment at their 
 everchanging hues, at the majesty in which they 
 were clothed, and somewhat of their serenity, their 
 infinite calm, would be imparted to him. Abashed, 
 he would take up the burden again, feeling in 
 some way that access of strength had come to him, 
 that after all, life was worth the effort to save it. 
 
 Life! This congeries of contradictions, "this 
 chopping sea of circumstance," in which he was 
 fairly put to it to learn how to trim his sails to 
 escape the peril ahead. Yet how he clung to it, 
 although the passing months were bringing resig- 
 nation with them. Always he must refrain from 
 doing that which he would like to do. Exercise, 
 action, work — the very things that promote and 
 preserve the health of the healthy individual, were 
 denied the consumptive. Life now was barren of 
 results, a complete reversal of that which he had 
 always desired and which was natural to him; yet 
 he wanted it even on these terms. 
 
 Work! Panacea for every ill — that he should 
 be denied this! of all his privations, this was the 
 hardest to bear up under. He never realized while 
 in health what a resource it is, the dignity that 
 attaches to it, the permanent results of it. How 
 3H 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 this erstwhile dandified young gentleman with his 
 dress-suit still in his trunk, envied the ranchman, 
 with his herds of cattle, his alfalfa fields, his 
 orchards and stands of bees! The world as ex- 
 emplified in the old city life were well lost for this. 
 
 As for him, all that was left now was to play 
 a waiting game. Life was indeed reduced to its 
 lowest terms ; yet even thus he passionately craved 
 it. There were potentialities within him seeking 
 expression that must have an outlet. Only another 
 opportunity and what would he not do with it! 
 Only some years of moderate health — he laid no 
 heavy demands on fate — he knew he would never 
 get to be old — only a little more time in which to 
 achieve something definite before passing out for- 
 ever into that void that yawned before him ! 
 
 His body ached all over. He had become used 
 to feeling tired, but his muscles ached more than 
 usual to-day; that last box of oranges was too 
 heavy; it would have been better, he reflected, to 
 have left it on the bench, instead of carrying it 
 to the pile. Life now called for the nicest adjust- 
 ments, the most delicate balancing of cause and 
 effect, and with it all, he made mistakes. He had 
 never previously been self-centered, but now every 
 act had to be weighed and carefully adjusted to 
 his powers of endurance. Never did human being 
 require wisdom for the conduct of life, as does the 
 315 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 consumptive. Infinite patience, too, and often 
 resignation, all of which come in due order. 
 
 He went into his tent and broke some eggs into 
 a glass with lemon juice and swallowed them. It 
 was close onto noon and he ought to have pre- 
 pared a more hearty repast, but he must first wash 
 his gray flannel shirt. He kept but the one in use, 
 which, when washed at noon and hung up in the 
 dry air of the desert, would be fit to put on again 
 within the hour. There was an irrigation ditch 
 near by from which he obtained most of the water 
 he required. It ran full only once or twice each 
 week, on which occasions he would fill his barrel, 
 making this last until the water came again. For 
 table use and for cooking, the well at the ranch- 
 house supplied his needs, but it was a long carry, 
 and carrying and lifting were bad for him. 
 
 He lived alone on the desert some miles from 
 the city. A daily stage passed near his camp bring- 
 ing him his supplies and mail. The camp was 
 located on the edge of an orange grove, the owner 
 of which gave him occasional jobs at picking and 
 packing the fruit. The fate common to so many 
 consumptives was his — to be without money as 
 well as health. His life was one of Spartan-like 
 simplicity. On rising, he lit his fire of mesquite 
 wood in the cook stove, and as soon as the interior 
 was warm enough, took his cold bath. He never 
 316 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 rose until the sun was an hour or two high, de- 
 pending on it to help warm his tent. By the time 
 he was dressed, the water in the teakettle was boil- 
 ing and he would make his coffee, grinding it each 
 morning as he needed it, the coffee-mill being fast- 
 ened to a post outside his tent. Oranges, toast and 
 chops or eggs completed his breakfast. He would 
 then take his blankets apart, hanging them in the 
 sun over bars put up for the purpose. By this 
 time it was usually warm enough outside in the sun 
 to sit down and write a letter or two. Then the 
 stage-driver was to be intercepted on his way to 
 town, who was to post his letters and fill orders for 
 supplies. If he felt well enough, an hour or two 
 of work in the orange grove followed. 
 
 The joy of working, of potency, of forgetting 
 for an hour his illness; this, as much as the pittance 
 he earned thereby kept him at it, and was, indeed, 
 what had brought him to the desert. He knew it 
 injured him; after an hour or two of it his muscles 
 ached, his pulses throbbed, it took him hours to 
 recover his normal condition. The little that he 
 earned thereby had its bearing on the question, 
 however. The demands of his diet, the superali- 
 mentation necessary in this disease was no incon- 
 siderable item of expense, but it was only one 
 among several. His tent-house, blankets, furniture 
 and cooking outfit had made serious inroads on his 
 317 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 little hoard. As he saw it dwindling, the money 
 question loomed up big within him, and he began 
 to practise economies undreamed of in the old days 
 of health and income. He often thought that if 
 he did not have this to reckon with, that if he had 
 sufficient means to tide him over for a year or two, 
 so that all worry on this score could be eliminated, 
 he would have a good chance for recovery. 
 
 On resigning his position in the big Eastern city, 
 Blakeslee's firm had given him six months' salary, 
 with the promise that this would be duplicated at 
 the end of this period should he still be unable to 
 work. With this sum he felt himself justified in 
 leaving for Arizona. This was his second winter 
 here, and he had not made the progress toward re- 
 covery that he had expected. He had not tackled 
 the question rightly, he reflected. He had lost 
 valuable time that first winter. Had he gone right 
 out onto the desert and camped, how different the 
 issue might have been. But he was not prepared 
 for such radical measures on the start, and re- 
 mained in town. City life, even in the Southwest, 
 is not the best thing in the world for the consump- 
 tive, and is expensive too, as he found out by 
 spring. 
 
 Instances are common in Arizona of consump- 
 tives being cured; of people who had come there 
 years before in bad condition, now going about 
 
 318 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 their daily avocations looking and acting very 
 much as if they had never been ill. Blakeslee 
 knew of a dozen such cases himself. That the 
 prognosis so far, in his own case, was not a favor- 
 able one, he also knew, and he began to see that 
 he would have to set all his store of wits to work, 
 in order to baffle the enemy that had fastened itself 
 on him. But to win out in this game calls for a 
 fortuitous combination of circumstances not vouch- 
 safed to many. The key to the situation is money, 
 but much else is needed. 
 
 In the free and easy life of the Southwest, ac- 
 quaintances are easily formed, especially among 
 the invalids. With the approach of summer, 
 Blakeslee had joined issues with another, and to- 
 gether they purchased a team of Indian ponies and 
 a wagon, with the project of journeying north by 
 easy stages to Montezuma's Wells and the Grand 
 Canon. Their camping equipment consisted of a 
 tent and blankets, as well as a few necessary cook- 
 ing utensils, and a sheet-iron stove. 
 
 By the time they reached Prescott, however, 
 they had enough of roughing it, so they sold their 
 team, which had stood the journey much better 
 than they, and went into camp in the outskirts of 
 the city. While it was cooler here, this was more 
 than offset by the altitude, which had the effect on 
 Blakeslee of making him nervous, a complication 
 319 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 that often intervenes in these dry, stimulating 
 climates. 
 
 On his return in October, he located himself on 
 a strip of desert land near town and the car line. 
 He was fairly content here, but as the season ad- 
 vanced, others came, water became scarce, and it 
 seemed advisable to look up other quarters. 
 
 He now sought advice from a ranchman whom 
 he met in town as to a camping place on the desert. 
 The ranchman had an orange grove (desert and 
 garden alternate in Arizona), and proposed to him 
 that he come out to his ranch as he wanted some 
 one about the place during his absence. It ended 
 by the removal of his menage out near the moun- 
 tains, the tent-house having been transported bodily 
 on a hay wagon. 
 
 He had not intended locating here alone, but 
 his companion, with whom he had spent the sum- 
 mer, and who had planned to come with him, 
 failed him when it came to the point, so he came 
 alone. The life seemed doubly lonely after the 
 enforced intimacy resulting from his camping ex- 
 periences of the previous months, but he made the 
 best of it, thinking grimly that it was only for a 
 time anyway, that either he would get better and 
 be able to go to work again, or — there was always 
 that other alternative to confront him: 
 
 Acting bravely a silent and desperate part. 
 320 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Yes ! That was the part he was cast for. Story's 
 lines often came to him in these first weeks on the 
 desert : 
 
 Who strove and who failed. 
 
 It might be his part to fail too. Well, he would 
 meet his fate like a man. That is the way of the 
 consumptive, acting his part, always acting it, but 
 always bravely, and being silent over it. Face it 
 yourself but conceal it from others, lest they tire 
 of you ! and you need them so much ! It is indeed 
 a silent and desperate part he is called on to act, 
 and he often acts it so well as to deceive even 
 those dearest to him. To look on death with un- 
 flinching eye, to see it steadily advancing on you, 
 and to go about with your hands in your pockets, 
 whistling, as some of them do when others are 
 about, — here is self-control, fortitude, bravery, — 
 of a sort than which there is nothing on earth 
 greater. 
 
 The weary and broken in heart. 
 
 How well the lines fitted his case! The Hymn 
 of the Conquered. Weary and broken in heart 
 he often was, but not conquered. He would keep 
 on acting the part, acting it bravely, since it is one 
 of the conditions imposed by the disease. And 
 whatever came, he would meet it like a man. No 
 whining. 
 
 321 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 In the intimacy engendered by the camp life of 
 the past summer, the two companions occasionally 
 dropped the mask, — stopped acting for a little 
 while, coming down to hard-pan facts as regarded 
 their chances of recovery, but only for a short time. 
 Always the old reserve was tacitly resumed the 
 next day. Each saw into the other's heart and 
 soul, — each knew that the other knew that both 
 were acting their part, but it was kept up just the 
 same as being the right thing to do under the cir- 
 cumstances. They even essayed familiarities, in 
 mining camp style, his companion sometimes ad- 
 dressing him as " Pinky/' after finding his card, 
 
 Mr. Sandford Pinkerton Blakeslee 
 
 and this was acting a part too. They often essayed 
 humor, even when not in the mood for it. Know- 
 ing the importance of keeping up their spirits they 
 aimed at an optimistic point of view in the face 
 of most discouraging circumstances. When their 
 letters came regularly, and were perhaps of a more 
 satisfactory nature than ordinary, they felt them- 
 selves justified in playing pranks even. 
 
 The liberality of his employers gave him a fight- 
 ing chance. Without it, he might as well have 
 received his death-sentence; but his money was 
 now three-fourths spent, and his physical condition 
 322 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 no better. He must make every dollar count here- 
 after. If the balance still left him could be made 
 to suffice for another year, he looked forward to 
 having his strength so far restored as to enable 
 him to do some light work. If it gave out before, 
 he well knew the outcome, it meant defeat, death. 
 The silence and solitude of the desert made him 
 introspective; he arraigned himself — his old life 
 rose up in judgment before him as he came to 
 realize the part he had hitherto played in it, the 
 toy he had made of it. He thought with contempt 
 of the dress-suit in his trunk, and the patent-leather 
 shoes, and the shirts with cuffs attached. Cuffs! 
 The ranchman better understood the conduct of 
 life. He knew better than to give his attention 
 to superfluities and lack necessities. His gray flan- 
 nel shirt and corduroy trousers were worth a trunk- 
 ful of such truck, he thought. The folly of 
 bringing them to Arizona ! It was on a par with 
 the other follies of the old city life — of the dances, 
 and late suppers, and the foolish talk of which the 
 dress-suit was but the fitting concomitant. Thus 
 he sounded the gamut of the emotions, and wore 
 himself out in the process. 
 
 Night brought him his compensations. Though 
 the days were filled with unrest, the nights brought 
 him serenity and calm. The short interval between 
 323 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 supper and bedtime, usually given up to a story or 
 two from the magazines, was always marked by 
 a quiet enjoyment which fittingly preceded the 
 night's rest, and was a kind of preparation for it. 
 The pure cold air of the winter nights conduced 
 to sound sleep, and the regenerative processes 
 brought about thereby were apparent in mind and 
 body, bringing accessions of strength to each. He 
 always felt nearest to contentment when preparing 
 for sleep, and most hopeful on rising in the 
 morning. 
 
 Sleep, for some years before coming to Arizona, 
 had been to him a coy mistress, who had never 
 distributed her favors lightly, who had ever to be 
 wooed by ingenious devices, and sometimes in spite 
 of all, had to be compelled by the use of drugs. 
 On the desert he was able to sleep soundly through- 
 out the night, and it meant much to him. 
 
 In the early stages of his disease, before he could 
 summon resolution to break with the old life, re- 
 sign his position and the assured income that went 
 with it, leave all his old associations and go among 
 strangers, the nights were dreaded by him. Strug- 
 gling slowly back to consciousness from dream-life 
 on those bleak November nights and gray morn- 
 ings, the full realization of his plight would come 
 on him suddenly at the last and with overwhelm- 
 ing force; it was like a knife-thrust in his vitals. 
 324 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 It was never so bad during the day as he could 
 reason the matter out with himself philosophically 
 then. 
 
 How well he remembered those nights now! 
 The sharp pain on emerging from the subjective 
 state where all was yet well, back into conscious- 
 ness and a life where all was now ill with him. 
 He would cower with apprehension at such times, 
 and often thought this was harder to endure than 
 the death he was seeking to escape. 
 
 His cot was placed on a platform outside his 
 tent with only the stars overhead, the absence of 
 dew making this mode of sleeping entirely feas- 
 ible. Sometimes he would waken about midnight 
 or a little later, and the splendid pageantry of the 
 heavens all about him made the awakening seem 
 a privilege. He sometimes toyed with the fancy 
 that the genii had awakened him with the express 
 purpose of showing him the beauty of the desert 
 night, a beauty baffling description, and which 
 alone, it seemed to him, was worth the journey 
 hither. 
 
 The clear desert air seemed to bring the stars 
 nearer. There were so many of them — the firma- 
 ment seemed so vibrant with life that his loneliness 
 and sense of isolation fell away from him in their 
 companionship. He came to feel himself one with 
 Nature, brother to the coyote whose querulous 
 325 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 bark sometimes broke the solemn stillness. In the 
 immensities which surrounded him his cares of the 
 day seemed petty indeed and fell away from him. 
 What was he ! he reflected, this atom in Time and 
 Space, this ephemera, to rail at fate and mistrust 
 the Power that had placed him here. That Time 
 and Space exist at all — by virtue of the fact — comes 
 its inevitable corollary, infinite justice. These 
 thoughts brought peace and content with them, 
 and a perfect calm would pervade his being like 
 an aura, sending him back to sleep with a slumber 
 profound as that of childhood. The stars taught 
 him resignation. 
 
 Opportunities are always given us to rise supe- 
 rior to our trials. With the same persistence that 
 Nature repairs man's ravages on the earth, cover- 
 ing broken and hideous outlines with vegetation, 
 she heals the mind too of its troubles. Every- 
 thing in Nature is prolific, our thoughts most of 
 all; it is astonishing how fast they breed, and 
 to what reserves undreamed of they lead when 
 allowed the right direction. 
 
 Through much introspection he was becoming 
 spiritualized, his mind opening to spiritual truths 
 like a flower to the sun. Some energy seemed at 
 work within him stimulating thought and feeling. 
 A higher life than anything he had yet aspired to, 
 seemed often within reach. There were voices not 
 326 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 to be stilled, telling of potentialities within him, 
 which, given favoring conditions might even yet 
 be productive of great results. 
 
 The creative impulse began to waken in him 
 seeking expression. His artist's sensibilities found 
 better chance of development in this desert life, 
 than was possible in the old life of the town 
 with its myriad distractions. Beauty of form and 
 of color, magical beauty diffused itself all about 
 him; he found himself daily growing more sensi- 
 tive to its influence. Could he but adequately put 
 this beauty on record, that were indeed worth all 
 the pains of the past, and would give effective 
 promise for the future. 
 
 Health, open sesame to all the gifts of the gods, 
 had been taken from him, but he sometimes 
 thought that, in the compensations of life, it was 
 possible that something even better was like to 
 be substituted for it — its withdrawal the means of 
 bringing out latent powers hitherto untouched. 
 By the light of a new knowledge which had come 
 to him of late he saw that the old life of health 
 had not been characterized by real contentment — 
 always there had been an undercurrent of dissat- 
 isfaction, a consciousness that he was not living 
 up to his best powers. In the retrospect, a key- 
 note of sadness constantly underlay his enjoyments, 
 like a minor chord. 
 
 327 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Most of all in his dreams, it seemed to him did 
 this altered condition in his mental outlook become 
 apparent. Even in the old days of health (his 
 sickness made a dividing point in his life, every- 
 thing being dated either from its advent or before) 
 there had been singular features in the dream-life. 
 One dream in particular, which came to have an 
 important bearing on his present life, had come 
 to him repeatedly in those days. There were 
 occasional variations, but in its essentials it was 
 very much the same. He always found himself 
 in some old-world church or gallery where were 
 paintings which appeared to be, at times, his own 
 work, again that of others, but entirely within the 
 compass of his ability to execute. At such times 
 he always realized plainly his calling as that of an 
 artist, the critical faculty well developed, achieving 
 without surprise to himself results that placed him 
 well in advance of his contemporaries. These 
 dreams made an impression on him, so that at 
 various times he made sporadic attempts at draw- 
 ing and painting in which he showed some pro- 
 ficiency. In the stress of business life, however, 
 the aspirations thus engendered had been stilled 
 almost in their incipiency. The desert proved a 
 better environment for the development jof the 
 higher life. 
 
 He long before had discovered that he could 
 328 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 induce sleep when restless by taking up the inci- 
 dents of some dream and carrying them through 
 his consciousness as if occurring in real life. He 
 now went a step further, and essayed calling up 
 this particular dream, in the effort of making it 
 come to him at will. This was attempted on retir- 
 ing, and although he was not always successful, the 
 dream came to pass enough times to keep his inter- 
 est in the subject alive. Aided by his gradually 
 unfolding psychic powers, he was able to perceive, 
 while in the dream-state, his own intelligence, as 
 it were apart from himself, idealized, heightened, 
 augmented; he saw this other self expounding, 
 analyzing, giving of its knowledge to others. On 
 awakening, the visual impressions remained clearly 
 in his consciousness so that he could call up the 
 picture at will, but the ideas that had been ex- 
 pressed remained hazy and indefinite. 
 
 He began the attempt of so charging his mind 
 while in the dream with the ideas which were be- 
 ing expressed by this other self, as to enable him 
 to remember them in detail on awaking. Could 
 this ability, this pure knowledge existing appar- 
 ently in such superabundance in the subliminal self 
 be made available to his present needs; were there 
 indeed such reserves for him to draw on ; could he 
 bring into requisition the resources of that other 
 self; what possibilities were not held out in the 
 329 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 prospect! The blood tingled in his veins at the 
 thought. A year thus were worth a dozen of the 
 ordinary kind. 
 
 But the plan did not give the immediate results 
 he had hoped for. Aside from the vivid picture 
 of the dream, he was unable to bring back to 
 waking consciousness more than a few sentences, 
 of no great importance. But he became aware of 
 greater receptivity in himself while in the dream- 
 state to all the incidents of the dream-picture ; the 
 paintings began to take on a new meaning, and he 
 came to note points in the architecture of the build- 
 ing, and details of the persons assembled which 
 had hitherto escaped him. 
 
 Thus encouraged, he continued his experiments, 
 with the object of having projected on his wak- 
 ing consciousness the frame of mind which pos- 
 sessed him while participating in the dream, in 
 the assurance that some glimmering of the con- 
 crete intelligence of the other self would thus be 
 retained. 
 
 Apprehension and dread were expunged in the 
 clearer light that now came to him. The mind, 
 thank God ! could be made amenable to his needs, 
 even though the body was failing him. By con- 
 scious direction, by intelligent willing, accessions 
 of sanity, of mental poise came to him. The mys- 
 tical other life, deep down in the lowermost strata 
 330 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 of his consciousness, to which everything else 
 seemed subject, claimed his attention and revealed 
 itself more and more to him with the progress of 
 the days. He became conscious of mental and 
 spiritual expansion, of development, along lines 
 and to a degree that formerly would not have 
 seemed possible to him. 
 
 He was close to the eternal verities now. The 
 consciousness of the existence within him of such 
 potentialities lent dignity to life, although he saw 
 that it might not be vouchsafed him to live long 
 enough in which to give them adequate expression. 
 He abandoned his ranch work, giving himself un- 
 reservedly to this new aim, which as by a miracle 
 had come into his life. He worked at his drawing 
 and painting every day, choosing always the same 
 hours, working to the limit of his strength, ad- 
 vancing his standards as his work improved. As 
 he progressed on the road, he found always 
 a wider mental vision opening out before him, 
 ever a readier grasp of the technicalities of his 
 subject. 
 
 That his work became all in all to him, need 
 hardly be said. The joy that only the creative 
 impulse can give was his. Life or death mattered 
 but little to him now. All the bitterness, the 
 despair that had formerly assailed him when con- 
 sidering his physical condition had left him. In 
 331 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 the quality of the work he was doing, came his 
 compensation. For there was the artist touch, 
 now, in all that he did. He knew by divination 
 that his work had merit. He was approaching 
 the goal ! He had always known, intuitively, that 
 he had it in him to do good work, could he have 
 given up everything else for it. Potentially, the 
 ability had always been there, awaiting develop- 
 ment. 
 
 And now it had been brought about! At last 
 he was using his powers worthily. To attain to 
 such knowledge — this is the supreme joy. Even 
 though he had to be brought to death's door to 
 find himself, it was not too dearly bought. Life, 
 in the illumination in which he now lived, was in- 
 deed a precious gift. In having it, he was much 
 to the good; it had been well worth while — and 
 although he realized the slender tenure on which 
 he held it, he could still exult in its possession. 
 That his work had merit — this was the main thing. 
 What did it matter even though he should not 
 live to see it recognized? It was enough to know 
 that the time would come when others would rea- 
 lize its worth, beholding it with the admiration 
 and reverent wonder that all fine achievements in- 
 spire. The great reward was his anyway. 
 
 The psychological life waxed as the physical 
 waned. A feeling of elation, of exaltation tran- 
 332 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 scending anything of which he had yet conceived, 
 at times overcame him. The joy in his creative 
 work suffused itself through all the fibres of his 
 being, rising on rare occasions to ecstasy. In 
 losing the world he had gained it after all. 
 
 333 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 FULLERTON did not go back to Bowlegs as 
 he had planned to do. When the time 
 approached for his return, he found himself op- 
 pressed with a sense of loneliness at the thought 
 of the depleted Camp, and, while it was his custom 
 usually to act from a sense of duty rather than 
 inclination, duty had to go by the board this time. 
 
 " Go back? What was there to go back to? " 
 he asked himself, while his mind revolted at the 
 loneliness and privation of it. The squalor of such 
 a life! That he should have been willing to live 
 it for so long! At last he had summoned the 
 resolution to try for something better. He decided 
 to go to California to the Summer Camp, ask Miss 
 Travis to marry him, and tell her the story of his 
 life. He would show her the letter he had recently 
 received from Mr. Edmundston in proof that he 
 was legally free to marry again. 
 
 Acting on this resolution, he sent his ponies back 
 to Bowlegs by an Indian, together with a letter 
 stating that he would not return to the Camp for 
 334 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 several weeks. He then told White of his inten- 
 tion to go to California, but did not mention his 
 ulterior purpose. 
 
 " I'll go along," was White's reply. He had 
 been wavering in his resolution of remaining in 
 the Camp, knowing that he would be doubly 
 lonely after Fullerton's departure. " I'll go with 
 you. If I had anything to do, I would not mind 
 the heat so much, or the loneliness either, for that 
 matter. Both together are rather more than I can 
 stand." 
 
 After the departure of White and Fullerton the 
 Camp was practically deserted so far as its former 
 occupants went, only Branscombe and Fillmore re- 
 maining. It was, however, a scene of greater 
 activity than at any time during the past winter, 
 owing to the steady sawing and hammering of a 
 corps of carpenters, which went on throughout the 
 day, in their effort to convert a carload of lumber 
 and shingles into a row of tent-houses, in the 
 shortest possible time. 
 
 The grounds were rapidly assuming the form of 
 a tent village. The cottages now being put up 
 would accommodate twenty-five persons, and when 
 finished, Branscombe felt that he would be justified 
 in taking a vacation himself. 
 
 On the morning following the departure of 
 White and Fullerton for California, Branscombe 
 335 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 and Fillmore, driving into town discussed the mat- 
 ter of bettering the Camp for the next season. 
 
 U A hospital, or rather a large ward, open on 
 three sides, with nurses' rooms off, is a matter of 
 the first necessity in a health camp, so that those 
 who have to keep to their beds can be under con- 
 stant supervision. Of course, this involves the 
 expense of a nurse, but it is really one of the essen- 
 tials of the Camp," said Fillmore, whose interest 
 in the matter was equal to Branscombe's. 
 
 " It can be managed for the time being, any- 
 way," replied Branscombe. " I may as well tell 
 you — you have probably long ago divined the fact, 
 that I am alone in the enterprise. I have known 
 all along that you knew it, but it seemed easier to 
 keep up the fiction than to talk about it. Since I 
 don't want any credit for it, there is really not 
 much reason for my being known in the matter." 
 After a short pause, he added: "This idea of 
 working for others is something new and foreign 
 to my habits, and I have to accustom myself to it. 
 As yet, it seems, even to me, often only a pose. 
 Selfishness is so ingrained in us that any divergence 
 from a selfish policy lays one open to a suspicion 
 as to motive; with those of a habitually low order 
 of thinking, one's intelligence even is brought into 
 question." 
 
 " That is too often the case," assented Fillmore. 
 336 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 " Though condemned theoretically, it is every- 
 where tacitly approved. The sin of the world is 
 selfishness in that it leads to and includes all other 
 sins. It is this that is at the other end of the pole 
 from spirituality, that crowds out spirituality in 
 the individual. As you say, it is ingrained in us, 
 and the person who goes counter to so prevalent 
 a mode of thought must needs have singleness of 
 purpose." 
 
 " The best way is to go your own course in the 
 old Davy Crockett fashion," responded Brans- 
 combe. " After all, one does these things from 
 inner conviction; not for the approbation of 
 others." 
 
 " Have you decided as to the charge that will 
 be made for board?" 
 
 11 Twenty-five dollars per month is as much as 
 they can afford to pay. Few of them have means 
 of their own; many, I find, are supported from the 
 earnings of mother or sisters. If all were able to 
 pay, and with good management, it might be made 
 self-supporting at this price. There are boarding 
 houses in the city, I find, setting a very good table, 
 where at a charge of thirty dollars per month, a 
 fair annual profit is made, and this, notwithstand- 
 ing high rents, increased servant hire and other 
 expenses that go with a house in the city, which 
 do not obtain in a camp. But I do not aim to make 
 337 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 it even approximately self-supporting. This, at 
 the price charged, could only be accomplished by 
 being stringent in making collections, and this 
 would defeat the very object for which the Camp 
 is projected. I want to make life easier for them. 
 Worry over money matters kills more consump- 
 tives than the disease itself, I find." 
 
 " It might be possible to get contributions from 
 outside sources to help carry it on," suggested Fill- 
 more, " from the tourists and townspeople when 
 the work is once under way." 
 
 " Not while it is a private enterprise. I expect 
 to make up the deficit for the next few years at 
 least, until the project is well on its feet. It is a 
 satisfaction to me to do this. The work interests 
 me and I ought to be willing to make some sacri- 
 fices for it. If it grows, and the deficit becomes 
 larger than I can meet, I will put it out of my 
 hands, giving it in charge of an institution like the 
 Y. M. C. A., or a committee of townspeople." 
 
 Deep in their project, they did not at first notice 
 a smart turnout approaching them, until Fillmore 
 chanced to look up, and, seeing the occupant, a 
 fashionably gowned lady, young and good-looking, 
 gazing at Branscombe with a slightly bewildered 
 air, directed his attention to the equipage. As he 
 looked up, the lady, apparently confirmed in her 
 first impression as to his identity, gave a hurried 
 338 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 order to the coachman to stop, and leaning out, 
 eager and smiling, extended her hand to him as he 
 approached the carriage. 
 
 " Larry ! You don't mean to say that you are 
 here! In Arizona, of all places in the world! 
 We'd concluded that you'd gone abroad. To think 
 that I've been in town almost a week, and not have 
 known that you were here ! " 
 
 Branscombe, though feeling very much as did 
 Robinson Crusoe when he first discovered the foot- 
 prints on his island, nerved himself to the kind of 
 badinage that he knew was expected of him. 
 
 " You don't say you're delighted to see me. 
 Whenever I used to meet any one unexpectedly in 
 Florida or the White Mountains, they always said 
 that first." 
 
 11 1 am delighted to see you, but I'm not going 
 to tell you so. You don't deserve any compli- 
 mentary speeches, running away from us in that 
 fashion. Walter was more disappointed than I 
 can tell you ; he had counted on you for the Cana- 
 dian trip. Bainbridge and Winslow were with 
 him, and they wanted you badly. They left letters 
 at your clubs and bachelor quarters with the re- 
 quest that they be forwarded, and when still they 
 didn't hear from you, they decided that you had 
 gone to the Sahara. Bainbridge or Winslow, I 
 forget which, remembered that you had once 
 339 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 spoken about making a trip out onto the desert, 
 and when we couldn't reach you, we concluded you 
 had gone there." 
 
 " I see you continue to bracket Bainbridge and 
 Winslow together as formerly." 
 
 " Yes. People call them the Heavenly Twins, 
 they're so constantly together." Then, with a sud- 
 den change of mien, " You tried our patience to 
 the breaking point, running off that way. What 
 had we ever done to you to deserve such treatment ? 
 (Fillmore had left some time before). But I 
 haven't the heart to scold you, I'm only too glad 
 to see a familiar face again. Come back to the 
 hotel with me," making room for him, " and I'll 
 continue to be good-natured. And where have 
 you been ever since ? Here ? In Arizona ? Then 
 you must have a gold-mine. Nothing short of 
 that would keep you here so long. I suppose you'll 
 have a box at the opera next season and be setting 
 up a stable and a bachelor place in the country. 
 How Walter'll envy you ! I anticipate an unholy 
 joy in noting his discomfiture. You've always been 
 such good friends that he couldn't well help being 
 envious should you so outtop him when you return. 
 How lovely it must be to make so brilliant a suc- 
 cess, that all your friends will hate you for it! 
 That's really the best test of success, because it's 
 a genuine appreciation wrung from them against 
 340 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 their will ! They're always ready enough to yield 
 their admiration to a moderate success, such as 
 any one might make, but when they hate you, it's 
 a spontaneous tribute only called forth by talents 
 of the highest order." 
 
 Branscombe was amused. If Walter Cope- 
 land had been so anxious to see him in his trouble, 
 he might have gone down to the Tombs, or on 
 his release, to his bachelor quarters. In any case, 
 the newspapers would have given him the required 
 information as to his whereabouts. The naivete 
 of trying to ignore the whole thing in so trans- 
 parent a fashion! And the nerve of it! Still, 
 he must do what was expected of him. He was 
 gentleman enough to follow a lady's lead, no mat- 
 ter into what sloughs of deceit it led. Come to 
 think of it, there was no deceit about it. Each 
 knew that the other was playing a part. 
 
 11 I cannot tell you how lonely I've been this 
 past week. Why couldn't I have discovered you 
 before?" 
 
 " You didn't prospect in the right places. I've 
 turned ranchman. I'm living in the country." 
 
 " You've changed somehow. You look differ- 
 ent — more moral, as if you were going to try to 
 be good. Don't! You'll never keep it up. It's 
 too difficult. That kind of thing doesn't come 
 easy or natural to people of our type. Yes! 
 341 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 You're different. It can't be due to the pastoral 
 scenes among which you live? " 
 
 " It's the effect of the actinic rays. They credit 
 everything to that in this country. If you stay, 
 you'll come under the influence too." 
 
 "And become good? How nice! How long 
 must I stay to bring this about? But perhaps that 
 depends on the previous state and condition. I fear 
 I never could keep it up in the strain of city life. 
 You must stay to dinner, and to-morrow you can 
 take me to your gold-mine. Don't tell me you 
 haven't one! Nothing short of that could keep 
 you here all this time." After a pause she con- 
 tinued with a kind of feverish gayety: " It's not 
 a question of health with you? No! I'll acquit 
 you of that, but that's what has brought me here, 
 and I'm all broken up over my cousin's death too. 
 You remember Sandford Blakeslee? He was at- 
 tacked by consumption two years ago, and came 
 here and camped all alone on the desert. He died 
 in January last." 
 
 " I remember him, but did not see him here. 
 I read the notice of his death in the local paper, 
 and thought it must be the same person. I never 
 saw very much of him back East. Tell me, did 
 he paint much of late years?" 
 
 " He used to try his hand at water-colors, poor 
 boy, but he had very little time for it; only Sun- 
 342 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 days and holidays. He used to say that he had 
 it in him to do good work could he have put all 
 his time into it. I have a winter scene that he did, 
 which has been commended. We were all at Palm 
 Beach when he died, and as I was worrying about 
 my health, they didn't tell me about it. Don't 
 ever advise anyone to go to Palm Beach for rest 
 and recuperation. There was every bit as much 
 to do there as if I had stayed at home. They 
 would keep you going twenty-four hours a day, if 
 you would let them. I was run down in health 
 and was told to go to Florida and rest up until 
 spring, instead of which I danced like a dervish 
 most of the time. And now the doctor says there's 
 a lesion, but it's only slight as yet, and by being 
 careful for a year, I'll probably come out of it 
 all right. So I've come, with father, my maid and 
 a nurse, to stay here a few days; after which we'll 
 go to Southern California for the summer." 
 
 Branscombe began casting about in his mind for 
 some comment to make to this, but before he could 
 think of anything, she began again: 
 
 " The doctors tell me there's no kind of danger 
 if I'm careful, and keep away from the city, other- 
 wise, the consequences may be very bad. You'll 
 stay to dinner — one o'clock dinner, but it's not 
 bad otherwise. Father will want to see you. He's 
 getting restless, and wants to leave for Pasadena, 
 343 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 but with management, he can be kept here a few 
 days longer — solely on your account." 
 
 When the carriage reached the hotel, Brans- 
 combe handed out Miss Copeland with all the 
 gallantry which that personage was accustomed 
 to, receiving in return one of her best smiles — she 
 had quite a repertoire of them adapted to all situ- 
 ations—as reward. 
 
 Within, in an embrasure screened from view, 
 a woman stood, taking in the little tableau. She 
 was outwardly calm, except for blazing eyes. 
 
 "He is as young as ever, younger! " she said 
 to herself, " and as careless. Nothing touches 
 him! The man, he is made for enjoyment, and 
 the woman for suffering! He is not changed ex- 
 cept for the little white hair sprinkled in with the 
 black." 
 
 When they entered the hotel the maid, having 
 evidently watched for the carriage, was in the 
 lobby awaiting them. 
 
 11 You see how they coddle me ! " remarked 
 Miss Copeland. " My nurse is a jewel. If good 
 care will accomplish anything, I'm sure to get well 
 soon. She has been for nearly a year with the 
 Wiltons, until Amy died. You remember Amy? 
 She did not go out much of late years, poor dear, 
 they've had scandal and trouble of various kinds 
 in the family, and it has helped to break down 
 344 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 her health. They were in the Adirondack^ part 
 of the time, and then at Liberty." 
 
 The rencontre bored him. How tiresome these 
 social amenities, where talk was so often forced 
 and the pose of each known to be a pose by the 
 other. Out here, if you didn't have anything to 
 say you kept your mouth shut, and it was all right. 
 With his new mental attitude, however, of desir- 
 ing always to regard any question from the view- 
 point of the other as well as from his own, he 
 listened politely to the father's platitudes as well 
 as to the daughter's sallies. And when the father 
 expressed his determination of leaving on the 
 following evening for Pasadena, he even joined 
 with Miss Copeland, in urging some delay. 
 
 He had often visited at their country house 
 with Walter, who was a classmate at college, and 
 he and Miss Kittie used to have some jokes in 
 common, but she had never shown any particular 
 preference for his society; to-day, however, she 
 had fairly monopolized him. 
 
 A less experienced man of the world might have 
 been deceived or even flattered by all this friend- 
 liness. Branscombe, however, had worked the 
 society treadmill too thoroughly during the past 
 five years to be taken in by it. He could readily 
 follow the line of reasoning that prompted it. It 
 was plain the CoDelands regretted now not having 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 stood by him in his trouble. True, they were out 
 of town at the time, in their country house, but 
 that did not excuse them. Now that it was a 
 thing of the past, they probably realized that he 
 had been treated unjustly by the others, and, as 
 an old family friend, had certainly deserved better 
 from themselves. Their defection toward him 
 might make an embarrassing situation when he 
 should return, as Miss Kittie so evidently expected 
 he would do. And with the glamour of a great 
 fortune achieved by him, all would lionize him! 
 Clearly it would be the part of wisdom to make 
 her peace with him now. These women ! 
 
 He was still smiling inwardly at the thought 
 of the supposititious gold-mine, and the social pres- 
 tige he was attaining thereby, when the rustle of 
 the nurse's garments caused him to look up me- 
 chanically, and he gave a violent start. It was as 
 if an electric shock had gone through him, but he 
 pulled himself together with a powerful effort, 
 listening with what patience he could command to 
 Mr. Copeland's arguments for immediate depar- 
 ture, which he now began to acquiesce in. 
 
 And the nurse, what of her? No trace of 
 agitation was visible here. With the habit of self- 
 restraint necessary to her profession, she betrayed 
 no sign of ever having met the visitor before. 
 But ere he left, she managed to hand him a note 
 346 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 unobserved by the others, which he took mechan- 
 ically, and slipped into a pocket. 
 
 Fifine in the States! In Arizona! And yet, 
 why not? Did she not have as good a right here 
 as anyone? It was now five years since he had 
 left Paris. She had changed, in her demeanor 
 most of all. Of course, the old lightsomeness 
 would be out of place in her profession as nurse, 
 but the expression of her face precluded its ex- 
 istence. Could she too have suffered? Had his 
 going made a permanent difference to her? He 
 would see her; it would be best. He hoped there 
 would be no scene. It was the dread of this that 
 had caused him to leave her as he had, by the 
 ruse of saying that he was going away for a few 
 days with a party of friends from the States who 
 wanted him for a trip into Brittany. 
 
 When he got to the lobby, he opened the note 
 and read: 
 
 Monsieur: (Fifine to address him in this fashion. Truly 
 the years had changed her.) I must see you. Don't deny 
 me. I have endured much since the old Paris days. Come to 
 the post-office to-morrow morning. I will be there at eight. 
 Mile. Kittie does not rise generally until ten. You did not 
 know it, but I was in New York a year before you left. I 
 have been in a training school already in Paris, and came to 
 New York with an American family. We leave for Pasadena 
 soon. Come to-morrow. 
 
 Fifine. 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 He would have to see her, that was plain. It 
 was embarrassing, but there was no help for it. 
 Why should she wish to see him? Not to re- 
 proach him, not even the old Fifine would have 
 done that. That was not what he had feared 
 when leaving her as he had. It was only that he 
 was a very coward at facing distress and tears. 
 She would soon get over it he had thought at the 
 time, and meanwhile, why should either of them 
 be more uncomfortable than was necessary? 
 
 Luckily, she would soon be gone, and then life 
 would flow on again in its old even course. 
 
 On his way back to Camp, he fell to planning 
 the studio he intended building, and which he 
 would use for his bachelor quarters. There should 
 be two stories to it, consisting of one large, square 
 room on each floor. The room on the main floor 
 would be the studio or living-room, and, detached 
 from it there would be a kitchen, with a bath-room 
 above. The room over the studio would be fur- 
 nished as a bedroom, but he would sleep on a 
 balcony opening out from it, which would connect 
 with the bath-room. His meals would be served 
 in the living-room. 
 
 The bedroom must be simple and restful. He 
 already had a picture of it in his mind. The pre- 
 vailing tones of the room should be ivory white 
 and green. The floor, ceiling and woodwork 
 348 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 white, the wall hangings and rug plain green. 
 The furniture should be mahogany, and in lieu of 
 all gewgaws or pictures, there should be a large 
 Buddha. This would dominate the room, with its 
 atmosphere of calm. 
 
 The ranch-house should be put in shape for the 
 Deacon and his wife, and he would beautify the 
 grounds to some extent. There would be a rose 
 garden, and some palms and Italian cedars and 
 quick-growing shade trees. 
 
 349 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 WHEN Branscombe reached the post-office 
 in the morning, he found Fifine await- 
 ing him outside. She was the first to speak: 
 
 " I have done much thinking Monsieur — " 
 Branscombe made a deprecatory gesture when she 
 began with the formal address, which she ap- 
 peared not to notice — " much thinking since the 
 old Paris days. I do not regret them, neither do 
 I desire them nor their like back again. And I 
 do not blame you so much now. You were not 
 the first; there was a predecessor. I made no 
 secret of this. But there has been no one else! 
 I swear to you, no one has taken your place. My 
 faults were the faults of my surroundings, of my 
 class. I know better now, but I did not know then 
 what such conduct involved — what a penalty I 
 would later have to pay — how it would color my 
 whole life! When I lost you I suffered! I suf- 
 fered more than I can tell! and I said: No more 
 of this! They do not care how they treat you. 
 They play with you, you make life pleasant for 
 them for a while; until they find some one they like 
 350 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 better; and they throw you aside. Only a grisette ! 
 You would give your life for them, and they give 
 you hardly a thought. You men are selfish, 
 ego'iste, wanting all, and giving nothing in return. 
 We give you the whole wealth of our affection, and 
 our good name along with it, and you reward us 
 by taking us out on a Sunday afternoon. That, 
 you think, is ample recompense. Your two thou- 
 sand francs, Monsieur, that you sent me before 
 leaving Paris are in the bank in your name. You 
 were too sure that I would accept it. You thought 
 it would heal my hurt." 
 
 They were walking out one of the broad ave- 
 nues leading into the country. Spacious mansions 
 dotted the roadway on either side. The gardens 
 were all ablow with billowy masses of lilies and 
 roses. The chatter of grackles was abroad in the 
 land. The air of the early morning was pure and 
 cool, but Branscombe felt as if he were stifling. 
 Again the inward drama! Again the mentor at 
 his elbow! 
 
 Presently she continued: 
 
 " I wanted to tell you about the money — that 
 it is still yours — but I wanted not to hurt you in 
 return, because in my foolish heart the love is 
 there still. But in my brain there is no love, and 
 it is my brain that controls me now. You never 
 considered what it meant to me, your coming into 
 35i 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 my life for so long, and then leaving me that way. 
 I tell you it was worse than death to me. But for 
 one thing, I should have ended it all. I should 
 not have kept on living." 
 
 " Fifine," began Branscombe, his voice so husky 
 as to be scarcely recognizable, " I know I have 
 wronged you. I don't know how to talk very well 
 — it never came easy to me — and if I did, there 
 is nothing that could be said that would palliate 
 matters. I will make you the only reparation I 
 can, and that is to offer you marriage. If you 
 will marry me I promise to do what I can to make 
 you happy. Together, we will strive upward 
 toward a worthier life.*' 
 
 She was silent for a few moments in astonish- 
 ment. u I thought I knew you, Larry/ ' she pro- 
 nounced the word softly, hesitatingly, as if fearing 
 to take a liberty, " but I knew you very little. I 
 always knew you for a gentleman; but I never 
 would have expected this. And while it would 
 never occur to me to take you at your word — I am 
 done with everything of that kind — I believe you 
 to be in earnest. I am glad that my little Larry 
 has such good blood in his veins." 
 
 Branscombe started violently. " Your — do you 
 mean " 
 
 " Yes ! " she interrupted him, and came near 
 hating him as she saw the eager look, the longing, 
 352 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 the hunger in his eyes. " This, too, he wants," 
 she thought. " They are all alike. They always 
 want, want, what you care for most. They want 
 all, all! and they end by getting it too! They 
 always want the kernel and leave you the shell." 
 
 She continued: 
 
 11 1 wanted you to know about the money, and 
 sometimes I thought you ought to know about the 
 boy, your boy, so that if anything happened to 
 me, you could take my place. But only in case 
 I was no more," she hastened to add, noting the 
 eager look again in his eyes. " I knew you would 
 act the father's part to him, I knew what it would 
 mean to you. That Sunday, a few months before 
 you left for the States, when we were together in 
 the Bois de Boulogne and you bought bonbons 
 and tossed them to the little boy on the bench 
 near us ; do you recollect ? And how he came nearer 
 and you sat him between us, and he reached out 
 shyly and put his little hand in yours snuggling 
 up close to you away from me? And then you 
 stroked his hair with your free hand, and a look 
 came into your eyes that I had never seen there. 
 It was a look that I liked, and after, when the 
 little one came, I forgave you much, because of 
 it." 
 
 They had strayed off the avenue, down a side 
 lane, and seated themselves on a log under some 
 353 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 cottonwoods out of the sun, away from all in- 
 quisitive eyes or ears except those of the grackles 
 all about them. 
 
 11 And he brought me solace,'* she continued, 
 " for though I had lost you, I had you over again 
 in him. And I fancied that when you were young 
 you were just such a child. See, here is his pic- 
 ture. I have it in my locket so that I can look at 
 it whenever the desire comes strongly to me. And 
 when he grew more and more into your image, 
 I the more lost my bitterness. I said: He will 
 make up to me for your loss. And I prayed the 
 good God to forgive me, for that I had felt so 
 bitter for his coming, after you had abandoned 
 me. 
 
 " Fifine, you torture me 1 Let me make it up 
 to you, all the suffering I have caused you ! " 
 
 " The grisette has some good traits. She is 
 industrious and economical, and this keeps her 
 respectable, at least according to her ideas of the 
 word. At all events she accepts no money that has 
 not been earned by the work of her hands. When 
 the little one came, I had money enough laid by to 
 last me a while. Then, the good Sisters in charge 
 where I was when my child was born urged me to 
 study nursing, and I got good positions as soon as 
 I was capable. I have been in no money trouble 
 because of the added expense that he makes me. 
 354 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 And I always felt that I wanted to see you once 
 more. If I could have said Adieu ! and have re- 
 turned you your money, the longing to see you 
 once again might not have been so great. 
 
 " Then the chance came to go to the States with 
 an American family with whom I had been living 
 in Paris. I knew the little one was being well 
 taken care of, and I came, thinking I might get 
 a sight of you. I did not intend to stay here long, 
 but the family needed me, and were kind to me. 
 I could earn much more in this country than in 
 Paris, and, I thought, I have need to earn and to 
 save for my little one ; by and by it will cost more 
 to keep him, and I may take sickness; he must 
 be placed above the reach of want. So I stayed on. 
 
 " Then your trouble came. The papers were 
 full of it. If there had been anything I could 
 have done, I would have gone to you, for I always 
 believed in you. I said: ' He would not do that! 
 Not that! If there has been anything between 
 them, and he has grown tired of her, he would 
 have left her (Branscombe winced perceptibly), 
 but he would not harm her.' " 
 
 A thought struck him. u Fifine, was it you that 
 sent me the violets every day? M 
 
 She nodded affirmatively. 
 
 " You were the only one ! the only one to stay 
 by me or believe in me." 
 355 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 " I wanted to tell you so. I wanted to write 
 and say: * Monsieur, I believe in you. I believe 
 you are innocent/ but when I had the letter writ- 
 ten I would not send it. I thought : * He will not 
 understand my motive; he may mistake me.' I 
 could not have stood that ! " 
 
 " Fifine," he said softly, " I have been very 
 unhappy until recently. Of late it has seemed 
 possible to get into a better mode of life. I have 
 wronged you ; how much I never knew myself until 
 this morning when I met you again. Let me undo 
 that wrong so far as is possible.' , 
 
 u The wrong is no more, Monsieur. You have 
 already blotted it out by your action. But nothing 
 has been further from my mind than marriage. 
 And marriage with you ! No ! Monsieur, my 
 wildest fancies never made such a leap ! I know 
 your American prejudices! The stain always re- 
 mains on the woman. And I am not your equal 
 socially. You would never have thought to marry 
 me had you known me when I was the simple, 
 innocent country girl, and you shall not marry 
 me now. In the eyes of your friends, I am not 
 half so worthy of you now as I would have 
 been then. No! I will not. I have my pride 
 too." 
 
 " You forget, in making the past a barrier be- 
 tween us, that I have participated in it; that it is 
 3S& 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 not so exclusively yours as you assume. Both are 
 involved." 
 
 " But it is the woman on whom the punishment 
 falls ! And I do not want that you sacrifice your- 
 self for me." 
 
 11 There is no sacrifice in the matter. I have 
 no family to make objections. I am alone. There 
 is no one with the right to say a word, or to offend 
 you in any way. Here, as my wife, the past will 
 never be inquired into. Our marriage will right 
 all." 
 
 "You feel so now, Monsieur (again the depre- 
 catory gesture from him), but you might not al- 
 ways feel so. Forgive me for touching on this 
 topic again — I do not wish to pain you, but your 
 desertion was almost more than I could bear. I 
 know if you took upon yourself the obligations 
 you propose," she hastened to add, seeing the 
 changed expression in his face, " you would carry 
 them out to the letter. It is in your blood to do 
 this. But you are a gentleman, and used to gentle- 
 folk, and I am not a lady in that sense, not like 
 Mile. Kittie, we will say. And if you should be- 
 come tired of me I would know it, you could not 
 hide it from me though you did from every one 
 else, and I would be miserable. I fear to stake 
 all again. At least, now, I have peace. And I 
 could not go through with it again, that pain. I 
 357 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 have tried to teach myself ever since that man 
 is an enemy to hide away from. When I came 
 to Arizona," she continued after a pause occa- 
 sioned by watching two little children go by on a 
 burro, " I did not know you were here. I did 
 not know where you were. But when I saw you 
 step from the carriage and hand out Mile. Kittie 
 — Ciel, what a name! The young of a cat! 
 When I saw you hand her out so poliment, so 
 gallantly, I almost hated you. I said a little while 
 ago that in wishing to meet you again I did not 
 want to pain you, but that was not quite true. 
 When I saw the empressement which you accorded 
 Mile. Kittie, I said: ' This is the way he can do 
 among his own kind. I ! who gave up those best 
 years to him, would he ever show me such 
 courtesy? ' And I hardened myself against you; 
 for I realized then more than ever before, the 
 difference that station makes. And then I thought: 
 ' I will tell him ! He shall know ! I will tell him 
 about the child, his child, back in Paris, in the 
 convent among the good Sisters, and perhaps I can 
 make him long for something that is beyond his 
 reach ! something that he can never have ! It will 
 not hurt him as his abandonment hurt me, because 
 he has never known him; but he will have the 
 
 longing ' " 
 
 " Fifine," he interrupted, " if I had known 
 
 358 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 about the child I would have sought you out. It 
 makes every difference in the world. There is no 
 other way for either of us. You must marry me. 
 There is no other way to set everything right." 
 
 " But now," she continued, not noticing the in- 
 terruption, " I am sorry for the — the vindicatif 
 spirit that led me to ask for a meeting. And I 
 am sorry if I have pained you. For you have 
 made my own heart lighter. Always I will think 
 better of myself and of you for this." 
 
 " Fifine, try to see this matter in its right light. 
 You have set yourself against me. Try not to be 
 stubborn. Look at it from my point of view. 
 Come. Say yes ! " 
 
 " I cannot! I am not what you Americans call 
 * cut out ' for the part. I am not like Mile. Kittie. 
 I have seen your Fifth Avenue. I know what the 
 life is like. It is not for me, that life. I would 
 rather have my own life, by working, than that. 
 I am not like those people. And then our 
 past " 
 
 u The past is nothing, and should never be con- 
 sidered," he interrupted. " We have only the 
 present; let us live that properly, and everything 
 else will be well. Our future shall justify the 
 past." 
 
 " As your wife, I would always be acting a part 
 among them. What brings you to Arizona?" 
 359 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 she asked suddenly, looking at him narrowly the 
 while; " not the consumption? No! I did not 
 think so. Then why do you stay? It is all blown 
 over, that affair of the boat! Mile. Kittie had 
 much to say about it last night to her father, and 
 said that the others had wronged you and were 
 sorry. When you come back, she said, they will 
 do much to make it up to you. You will receive 
 much attention from your friends." 
 
 " I shall not go back. What is there to go back 
 to? I like this life. I am living quite simply, but 
 I am content. That is, I have been until now. 
 Certainly this makes a difference. The training 
 of the boy," in his eyes she read his longing, 
 " would indeed give me something to live for." 
 
 Some Sonora doves alighted almost at their 
 feet, seemingly aware that it was now the close 
 season, and that they had nothing to fear from 
 their arch-enemy. She watched them a few mo- 
 ments before replying. When she began, her 
 voice was hoarse with emotion. 
 
 " You have shown me that you can be unselfish, 
 Larry — " again she spoke the name softly, hesi- 
 tatingly, as if fearing an impropriety in using the 
 old familiar name in these changed relations — 
 " you have shown me that you can make sacrifices 
 — something which I never would have expected 
 from you. I know you well enough to know that 
 360 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 you mean what you say, that you would not offer 
 marriage if you did not mean it and be willing 
 to abide by it whatever it might bring. You shall 
 not be alone in this. I will show you I too can 
 be generous. I will let you have him ! " She spoke 
 vehemently, dramatically, as only the Latin can, 
 as the Latin must when under strong excitement. 
 " I will give him to you ! You shall have him ! " 
 
 " Not unless you'll come too. You said a little 
 while back that we men are selfish, that we want 
 all. That is what I want. I want the boy, but 
 I want you too. And a child's life without a 
 mother's tenderness is only half a life." 
 
 u He is yours to do what you will with. To- 
 night I will write to the Sisters in the convent in 
 Paris, and tell them the story, and I will tell them 
 that it is my wish that the child should go to his 
 father. And once in a while I may see him? " 
 
 " Shall I always be taking advantage of you I " 
 he rejoined, and there was a ring of the old self- 
 scorn in the tones of his voice, albeit a prouder 
 carriage of the head — " shall I always take ad- 
 vantage of you, accepting everything from you 
 and giving nothing in return ? Fifine, I am trying 
 to learn how to live a different life. I have always 
 thought of myself first; always myself. It did not 
 make much difference about the others, so that I 
 might have what I desired. That was the impor- 
 361 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 tant thing. No matter if others suffered on ac- 
 count of it; it was a pity that it should have to be 
 so, but it never stopped me. Their view, their 
 side of the question I never considered. But now, 
 since coming to Arizona, to be accurate, since last 
 December, I am learning better. I am learning 
 that you cannot harm another without harming 
 yourself; and conversely, you cannot help another 
 without benefiting yourself most of all. Every- 
 thing that you do, good or ill, reacts on yourself 
 for good or ill. I now know that it is not good for 
 us to have our own way all the time — that it is often 
 necessary to give up — to renounce. And when 
 we have learned this lesson of renunciation, sor- 
 row loses its power over us. When we can rise 
 superior to our desires, we find that there is given 
 us in place of them something that we prize more 
 highly. I should feel like a cur to take advantage 
 of you any more. And I will not deprive the boy 
 of the mother who is far more to him than the 
 father ever could hope to be." 
 
 A certain nobility came to her features — there 
 was dignity in her bearing and manner as she an- 
 swered him: 
 
 " You are much changed, Larry. You say 
 
 true, in the old time you would not have thought 
 
 of this. You are changed in mind, but you have 
 
 not grown older. When I first saw you, when you 
 
 362 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 stepped from the carriage, I said : ' The years have 
 been kinder to him than to me. He is as young 
 as ever, all except the little white hair sprinkled 
 in with the black.' But now I know that you, too, 
 have suffered in the years that have gone." 
 
 The morning was far advanced. The sun was 
 riding high in the heavens. Under the shade of 
 the cottonwoods they were comfortable, and, in 
 their intense preoccupation did not notice the lapse 
 of time. 
 
 " Fifine, you are my wife, bound to me just as 
 closely as if priest or minister had joined us. This 
 is my view of the matter in the light of what has 
 come to pass. Nothing that you say or do will 
 change it; we are husband and wife, just as that 
 boy is our child. You cannot get away from it. 
 And you have obligations to the boy and to me — 
 the obligations of the wife and mother. The thing 
 to consider now, is, what is most desirable for the 
 boy. He is the key to the situation. " 
 
 There was a new and unmistakable tone of 
 command, of masterfulness in his voice, at which 
 she quailed. Womanlike, when he took this tone, 
 she felt herself becoming like clay in his hands. 
 She must not lose sight of her duty to him. She 
 must be resolute in putting away this happiness 
 she felt she did not deserve. 
 
 " Do not urge me, Larry," she pleaded. " Do 
 363 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 not tempt me to do what might bring unhappiness 
 to both." 
 
 " The child must be considered first. You have 
 to think what is best for him. In any event, he 
 must remain with his mother. Nothing can make 
 up to a child for the loss of its mother. I always 
 felt better acquainted with my mother, and more 
 nearly related to her, than to my father. There 
 is nothing else to do that would be right for each. 
 Father and mother must unite for the child's sake. 
 And he will do better here in every way. The out- 
 door life in the pure air will make a strong, healthy 
 lad of him. We will take him away from Paris 
 before he can become contaminated by its vices." 
 
 The grackles had been reinforced by another 
 colony, and all seemed bent on elucidating the 
 mystery of this couple below. A mocking-bird 
 in a mesquite tree near by, rolled off his pretty 
 roundelay. 
 
 " Let me tell you what keeps me here. I have 
 hardly spoken of it as yet. This is a country to 
 which consumptives come in large numbers in the 
 autumn and winter, as you may know. Many 
 come with little or no money. They are desperate 
 — they do not want to die, and they come here on 
 the chance of earning something while making the 
 cure. Many might be cured if they had a chance, 
 who die for want of the right kind of help. There 
 364 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 is no work for that class here, and so their condi- 
 tion becomes worse — much worse, than if they 
 had remained at their homes. The suffering that 
 goes on among these people, helpless through no 
 fault of their own, can hardly be described. We, 
 who have always had health and the means of 
 support could never imagine it, and can hardly 
 believe it when we see it. 
 
 " Then there is another class, people who have 
 some means, but very limited. These are almost 
 as bad off as the others, as they haven't money 
 enough to provide themselves with what they need 
 to make the cure, and so, only prolong their 
 misery. They need help. To battle with a dis- 
 ease like consumption is hard enough without 
 having to suffer from the want of money along 
 with it. And they worry more on account of their 
 poverty than their illness. It is no more than 
 right — it is no more than the simplest justice that 
 those with health and means should do what they 
 can for these people who lack both. 
 
 " Fifine, I am planning to do something to re- 
 lieve this situation. It is only by a combination 
 of favoring conditions that the consumptive can 
 hope to recover. When everything is right, many 
 cures are effected and the lives of others prolonged. 
 And no provision has been made for them here, 
 as yet. They are dying all about us for the want 
 
 36s 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 of just such help as I can provide. This is what 
 I have in hand. I am starting a Camp where 
 these people can be properly looked after — where 
 those that are not too bad can be cured, and the 
 others made comfortable. In this work you will 
 be a helpmeet to me in every sense of the word. 
 Here, in this work, you will be my equal, my 
 superior in the eyes of all. In this Western coun- 
 try, women are accorded a deference that is wholly 
 unknown in your land. And you will like the 
 work. There is more satisfaction in it than can 
 be had in the other mode of life which we both 
 have tested and have found insufficient to our 
 needs. There is to be a hospital here, so that all 
 those who have to keep to their beds — those 
 merely running temperature as well as the very 
 sick — can be under constant supervision. The 
 best results in critical cases can only be secured by 
 individualized treatment." 
 
 How animated he became as he warmed up to 
 his theme! The uplifted head, the mobile fea- 
 tures, the glistening eyes — here was intensity of 
 purpose of which she heretofore had had no con- 
 cept. 
 
 " As usual, this part of the work, being the 
 
 hardest, the most responsible, delicate, riskful to 
 
 the health, falls to the woman. The young men, 
 
 especially when they are very sick, do much better 
 
 3^ 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 when there is a woman about. They long for her 
 presence, her sympathy, the touch of her hand, the 
 cheer of her words. She inspires confidence, hope, 
 and her presence really holds out a possibility of 
 recovery to them which would not be the case 
 otherwise. " 
 
 A subtle, indefinable change came over her 
 features as he said this. 
 
 He continued : " You will take charge of this, 
 Fifine, but you will have an assistant nurse, so that 
 your health will not suffer. You will have others 
 depending on you. You will take care of your 
 health for the sake of others as well as yourself. 
 The ward will be constructed so that it will prac- 
 tically be a screened room, three sides of it open 
 to the elements. In bad weather, which only 
 seldom occurs, canvas-covered frames will be put 
 on the sides from whence the wind comes. At all 
 other times, it will practically be like out of doors. 
 It will be a busy life for both, and will yield us 
 much satisfaction." 
 
 Branscombe paused, knowing that he had pre- 
 vailed. To appeal to her generosity — to ask sac- 
 rifices^ — here he touched the very heart and core 
 of womanhood. He could not have hit on a line 
 of argument better calculated to carry his point. 
 
 Fifine, in all the stress of conflicting emotions, 
 of love on the one side, duty, or rather her concept 
 367 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 of it, on the other — found herself wondering at 
 his flow of language. Though not taciturn in the 
 old Paris days, yet distinctly speech had been silver 
 with him; silence golden. He was convincing in 
 this new role, and she found herself carried along 
 in the flow of his enthusiasm, in spite of all her 
 resolutions. 
 
 And, after all, their marriage would not be the 
 anomaly that it had first seemed. 
 
 This work would go far to redeem the past — 
 would render her more worthy of the new relation. 
 In the old Paris days it would not have done at 
 all. She had never thought of it as a possible 
 outcome of their relations. Marriage between 
 the former Larry and the former Fifine would 
 have been something outre, incongruous, not to be 
 imagined. 
 
 But now, all was wholly different. For not only 
 had the circumstances changed — that was some- 
 thing that was unstable at best and continually 
 liable to change — a permanent relation like mar- 
 riage should have a better groundwork — but what 
 was more important, the character of each had 
 changed; and although character also is mobile, 
 never finished, always in process of becoming, its 
 outcome might fairly well be predicated in the 
 given individual. And in his first words he had 
 indicated this new trend of thought. She had 
 368 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 never imagined him as taking a serious view of 
 life; she had never imagined him as being other 
 than what she had always known him. Under 
 her sense of injury, it had seemed that she had 
 been singled out for discipline; that while suffer- 
 ing had been meted out to her, to him came enjoy- 
 ment; punishment for her — reward for him. 
 
 But now she knew that the years had exacted 
 their tribute from him as from her. Things were 
 not so unequally distributed as she had believed. 
 Both had been chastened. Yes, it was not alone 
 she; he too was changed, changed in every root 
 and fibre of his being. Though the body had re- 
 mained the same, the mind inhabiting it, the in- 
 forming spirit, that which constitutes the man, was 
 something wholly other than the former Brans- 
 combe. 
 
 As for differences in station, it was even as he 
 had said; in this work social distinctions cut but 
 little figure. It was man and woman now, not 
 gentleman and lady. They would be much occu- 
 pied in their work ; this would satisfy them. There 
 was only the one drawback; womanlike, it would 
 be long before she would get over that — that past 
 which for her might never be entirely expunged, 
 even by a future of good deeds. 
 
 As for him, manlike, the past troubled him very 
 little, his thoughts being directed always toward 
 369 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 the future. The past was a closed book, of no use 
 to any one. The future held all of promise — of 
 hope — of fulfilment. 
 
 " Maternity changes all women for the better," 
 he thought. " It has bettered her, even in the 
 false position in which she is placed. This has 
 retarded her development, but that is a thing of 
 the past now. Marriage will rectify all. The 
 boy, too, will hallow, will spiritualize our rela- 
 tion." 
 
 The boy! Already in imagination he felt the 
 grasp of that little hand in his, he saw the con- 
 fiding upward glance, he divined the outflow of 
 trust, of reliance which the child yields so freely 
 the parent. His the child! he the parent! With 
 the thought came the look in his eyes that she had 
 seen there that Sunday afternoon in the Bois de 
 Boulogne when he had stroked the little one's hair 
 with his disengaged hand; the look that she had 
 liked but had never seen there before; the look 
 that would often be there now. 
 
 " And you will sever your relations with the 
 Copelands at once? That is right. Miss Kittie 
 can manage very well with the maid until they 
 get to Pasadena. Now that the main point is 
 settled, you shall have your own way in all minor 
 ones. You, too, are different, Fifine. You, too, 
 have passed through the fire, and have been bet- 
 370 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 tered in the conflict. Such experiences never leave 
 one the same. Either they better, or they em- 
 bitter one. And how well you speak English. 
 You spoke it only fairly well in the old Paris 
 days." 
 
 " To be a nurse I had to, so I studied hard. I 
 became ambitious, for the child's sake. 
 
 " Larry," again she spoke the name softly, hesi- 
 tatingly, still as if fearing to take a liberty, u I 
 will go back to Paris to the little one, and if, in 
 a month, you write for me to come, I will come. 
 You must take time to think it over, and, if you 
 still think this may be, I will come. I promise." 
 
 11 1 know myself well enough to know that I 
 will think the same in a month, in a year, in a 
 lifetime; I can see no reason for delay. But I 
 have told you that since the main point is settled, 
 I will yield the minor ones. I will do as you de- 
 sire. I leave all to you. One or the other will 
 have to go for the boy. Why not let me go and 
 bring him, in your stead? You stay in this coun- 
 try and rest, and I will go." 
 
 11 No, Larry, it is better that I go. He may 
 be sick in traveling. I can care for him better. 
 It is better that I go." 
 
 Branscombe took out his watch, making an ex- 
 clamation of surprise. u Two o'clock ! What can 
 have become of the day ! " 
 37i 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 " And you promised to call on Miss Kittie this 
 morning," replied Fifine, upon which they arose 
 and walked back toward the main avenue, still 
 conversing, the grackles, being inquisitive as is the 
 nature of grackles, following closely, in the effort 
 to ascertain what the gentleman's plans were. 
 
 They learned finally that he would not call on 
 Miss Kittie, who, to the grackle comprehension, 
 appeared to be something of a disturbing element. 
 He would write her, they heard him say, that he 
 had been prevented from calling that morning by 
 circumstances over which he had no control, and 
 regretted that their early departure would prevent 
 him from seeing them while here, but that he 
 might get to Los Angeles within a month or two, 
 and would then look them up. 
 
 They learned, further, that the lady would 
 probably start for the East on the following day; 
 that the gentleman would arrange about the ticket 
 that evening, and would send it by messenger to 
 the hotel. He would also advise her by telephone 
 as to the time of her departure and other details, 
 and would be at the depot to say adieu. 
 
 372 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 BRANSCOMBE, now that he had allowed 
 his mind to become receptive to higher 
 influences, found a new life opening out before 
 him in broad vistas of usefulness — a life that he 
 saw he must of necessity follow now that he had 
 essayed it — which in itself would be his reward. 
 
 The cause of the unrest and discontent which 
 had so marred his course heretofore had been 
 largely due to the want of a vocation. His life 
 had lacked motive. The project now under way 
 supplied this, and was doing as much for him as 
 for those whom he sought to benefit. There was 
 work to be done now, work of a kind for which 
 he felt himself well fitted, and his days were filled 
 with content. 
 
 With the development of character resulting 
 from a mode of life of which he could approve, 
 he found his horizon constantly growing wider, 
 his mental outlook saner. Incorporated now into 
 this throbbing world-life, on which hitherto he 
 had gazed only from afar, having felt himself 
 through long years of inaction incapacitated for 
 373 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 it, he experienced the dignity that comes through 
 participation in it, and it was a sensation as novel 
 as agreeable. 
 
 Work, achievement, what a satisfaction there 
 was in it! How much better this, he thought, 
 than the self-culture which in the old Paris days 
 was considered everything, which his associates 
 continually held up to one another as the highest 
 and best that life has to offer. " Art (with a 
 capital A) must be your mistress, your Alpha 
 and Omega. You had but to follow her wherever 
 she might lead, and so attain to the ideal state. 
 If you spent your whole lifetime in painting one 
 good picture," they used to say, " or in doing one 
 bit of good, lasting work, it were well worth 
 while." 
 
 But in a world like this, in which the tragedy 
 of it is continually coming to the fore, self-culture, 
 being only another form of self-gratification, 
 might well be relegated to the background until 
 some other and more necessary things be achieved. 
 
 This was the burden of Branscombe's thoughts, 
 as he sat before his tent one evening in early 
 June, after a particularly busy day. The evening 
 hour, given over to contemplation under the cot- 
 tonwoods, came to be the best part of his waking 
 moments. In retrospect, the life of the past 
 months since coming to Arizona, passed before 
 374 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 him. It was as if his intelligence were standing 
 aside from that ego he called himself, enabling 
 him to see and judge these things impersonally. 
 
 How his viewpoint had changed since then! 
 He recalled among other episodes, the incidents 
 attending young Latimer's hemorrhage, and the 
 glow of gratification that had suffused his being 
 when Fillmore had complimented him on his 
 prompt action, telling him that he had saved the 
 young fellow's life thereby. Was not this better 
 than painting pictures that nobody wanted to buy? 
 In these beginnings, forces had been set in opera- 
 tion which had brought about this change in his 
 mental outlook. For it was only by taking hold 
 of the life, by identifying himself with it, that he 
 had been enabled to see it from the standpoint of 
 the others. 
 
 Branscombe had of necessity changed his plans 
 as regarded California, deciding to go to New 
 York instead, where he would transact some neces- 
 sary business and await the arrival of Fifine and 
 the boy. They would then proceed leisurely west- 
 ward, stopping at Denver en route, and would 
 reach Arizona some time in September. 
 
 He wrote the Deacon, telling him of his change 
 
 of plans : "I am going East for my wife and 
 
 child," he wrote, " on account of which I will be 
 
 unable to come on to the Summer Camp, but I will 
 
 375 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 return in September, and will have things in readi- 
 ness for you, when you come back. The ranch- 
 house will be reserved for you, as has been al- 
 ready arranged, and I am glad to say that the 
 prospect of securing the organ position for your 
 wife seems also good. The salary is small, (of 
 this salary Branscombe himself was to pay the 
 larger part) but with the pupils that she will 
 secure, there will probably be enough for your 
 needs. The studio, elevation drawings of which 
 you saw prior to your departure, is nearing com- 
 pletion. I have made a few alterations and addi- 
 tions to the original plans, putting in a larger 
 kitchen, as well as a governess's room. For the 
 time being, we shall have to have a governess to 
 take charge of our child, as my wife, who is a 
 graduated trained nurse, will take an active part 
 in the work of the Camp." 
 
 To this the Deacon returned a characteristic 
 answer, making no comment on his partner's 
 casual reference to wife and child, as if it were 
 quite the regular thing to do, to spring a family 
 onto you without having previously given you 
 even a hint of their existence during a six months' 
 intimate acquaintanceship. 
 
 " Dear Padre," he wrote, " we are comfortably 
 settled in our own tent, with vines and fig-trees 
 all about. Quite singularly, my wife (which her 
 376 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 name is AttilJa) is content here. Her principal 
 anxiety on coming had been in regard to sleeping 
 out of doors, as she is quite timid, but in this 
 hollow of the hills, in which we are tucked away, 
 we all feel perfectly safe. We are forgotten of 
 the world here, and are quite content. My wife 
 enjoys sleeping out of doors, and says she is grow- 
 ing younger thereby. This rainless, dewless cli- 
 mate of the California foothills is ideally adapted 
 to camping, and we are all enjoying it, the Lati- 
 mer boys in particular. They contemplate buying 
 a ranch here after another year. They are our 
 nearest neighbors, and my wife is greatly interested 
 in them, in Percy specially. He is gradually im- 
 proving, but is not yet in the condition he was in 
 before his mishap. They have accepted a very 
 good offer for their San Francisco property, which 
 was beyond the fire-zone, and they expect to re- 
 main here permanently. 
 
 " You know, of course, that White's friend, 
 Fullerton, came on here with him? Vent, vidi, 
 vici, is to be said of him! Within a week of 
 making his appearance in the Camp, he and Miss 
 Travis went to Bakersfield where they were mar- 
 ried, my wife and I going along to assist in the 
 ceremony. The happy couple (I believe that's 
 the way they're always alluded to in the papers) 
 are at present in Los Angeles, — Mecca for all 
 377 
 
This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 desert sojourners, — but are expected back at the 
 Camp almost any day now. Fullerton will remain 
 a few weeks, and will then proceed to Bowlegs, 
 leaving his wife here until autumn. My tempera- 
 ture has got around to normal again and seems 
 disposed to stay there. There has been no fluctu- 
 ation for the past two weeks and for the first time 
 I'm beginning to believe that I'll pull through." 
 
 Forecasting the future, as was his wont, Brans- 
 combe's thoughts were occupied with a considera- 
 tion of the results that might be obtained next 
 winter when the Camp would be in good working 
 order. If circumstances warranted it, he would 
 put up more cottages, so as to have fifty people 
 on the grounds. To keep the deficit down as 
 much as possible he would have to manage the 
 work systematically, in a businesslike way, as 
 grandfather Larrimore had managed his business. 
 He would have regular bookkeeping, with monthly 
 trial balances; his purchases must be made in the 
 best markets, and the ranch must be brought to 
 the best state of efficiency. He already had his 
 cattle, which would supply the milk and butter 
 required for the Camp. His incubators were 
 turning out chickens by the hundreds, many of 
 which would be egg-producers the following win- 
 ter. There was a competent ranchman in charge, 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 and he hoped that the ranch would eventually con- 
 tribute most of the supplies required for the table. 
 
 He always believed that he had good busi- 
 ness talent; that, had he inherited no money, had 
 he been compelled to make his own way, he 
 would have made a notable success as a business 
 man. Now the opportunity was given him of 
 putting the matter to the test; for this Camp 
 project was like a business, the management of 
 which called for good business qualifications. He 
 was put on his mettle; he would have to make a 
 good showing and justify his opinion of himself. 
 
 But there must be no economies which would 
 in any way militate against securing the best re- 
 sults as regards the health of the invalids. Their 
 welfare must be the first consideration. Should 
 the deficit prove to be larger than he could meet, 
 he might augment his income by engaging in some 
 business, placing a good man in charge of the 
 Camp. 
 
 And those without means should be given a 
 chance. It might happen often enough that the 
 money supply of one or the other would be tem- 
 porarily cut off. In many cases it had to be earned 
 first by the people at home. There was a case 
 on the grounds where two brothers were being 
 supported by a sister, who worked at dressmaking 
 to do it. 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 Too early yet to make plans regarding the boy's 
 career; but he would take good care not to endan- 
 ger it by leaving him too much money, as his own 
 had been. Larry must not waste his best years 
 in idleness and listlessness. Better, much better, 
 that they be spent in achieving a competency for 
 himself. 
 
 Something which gratified Branscombe at this 
 time was the reports which came to him regarding 
 the Blakeslee painting, which he had sent on to 
 Paris to the Master. In reply he had received a 
 few lines in acknowledgment, with the assurance 
 that it would be hung at the forthcoming exhibi- 
 tion of the Salon. Then had come press notices, 
 and later a rapturous letter from the Master, in 
 French, saying that it was not to be thought of 
 to allow the picture to leave Paris, and would not 
 Monsieur White put a price upon it? But Mon- 
 sieur White, when the subject was broached to 
 him at the Summer Camp, declined the proposi- 
 tion, saying he did not care to profit by his part- 
 ner's gift. " This art of water-color is too rare 
 as yet in France," wrote the Master in a subse- 
 quent letter. "It is a most exquisite art — in the 
 right hands the work is finer, more ethereal than 
 what has been done in oil. Such subtlety in the 
 merging of tones I have never yet seen as is ex- 
 hibited in this picture. We must be permitted to 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 keep it a while longer anyway." The matter was 
 finally arranged by White consenting to loan the 
 picture indefinitely, in consideration of which the 
 Master made a gift of money to the Camp, which 
 sum was to be applied toward paying the board 
 of those without funds. 
 
 Branscombe spent many a pleasant hour these 
 June evenings under the cottonwoods, his thoughts 
 intent on the work in hand. Yes, he would make 
 this his lifework! It had already brought him 
 content, the little that he had done. And his 
 character had widened, broadened, in the doing 
 of it. In the illumination that came to him 
 through helping the others in the Camp, he first 
 came to realize the duty of the individual to the 
 whole, and that it precedes his duty to himself. 
 The individualism on which he had formerly so 
 prided himself seemed now, in the light of this 
 new knowledge that had come to him, only an- 
 other name for egotism and selfishness leading 
 nowhere. 
 
 Civilization itself, he came to see, has been 
 achieved, not by each pursuing low and personal 
 aims, but rather by the leading spirits, people of 
 genius, discerning, clear-sighted, working steadily 
 for the uplifting of humanity, contributing their 
 quota toward the general well-being, relegating to 
 the background their own petty personal aims, and 
 
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This Labyrinthine Life 
 
 finding their felicity in doing so. So would it be 
 with him. At last he was on the right road. The 
 inward drama had come to an end, the mentor at 
 his elbow silenced! He was at peace with him- 
 self, at peace with all the world. He felt now, 
 though without abatement of his newly acquired 
 humility, that he could justify his existence. Life 
 at last had found a meaning. 
 
 382 
 
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